


Ekman Spirals

by Lunarrua



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (Very mild), Boys In Love, Dolphins & Whales, Dom/sub Undertones, Greek Islands, Luxury Yacht Crewing, M/M, Mutual Pining, No sex until half-way through, OT5 Friendship, References to Drugs, Scrabble, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:22:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7617961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarrua/pseuds/Lunarrua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The luxury yacht AU where Zayn's the steward who sees everything, Harry's the guest with mysterious bruises and a sad secret, there's much lustful pining, and Louis probably going to land everyone in jail.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Ekman Spirals:  An Ekman Spiral is a theory to explain a type of sub-surface ocean current, where the direction of the current at the surface of the ocean moves in a different direction of the current deep underwater.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Athens

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been heavily researched, however I've allowed certain inaccuracies to remain for the sake of the plot. Gold stars will be awarded for anyone who wants to identify these in the comments! :D
> 
> Final point - the "Calista" isn't one of those gigantic superyachts like the St Barts Yacht of Doom. It is smaller and more beautiful - like this one: [CALLISTA](http://www.motoryachtcallista.com/motoryachtcallista/) However, any resemblance to actual persons or yachts living or dead is purely co-incidental. Of course.

 

It's two a.m. and Zayn's been on deck, standing to attention, arms snapped tight to his sides, for 20 minutes now. His shift has entered its 15th hour. His hands smell of bleach and lavender furniture polish and a mosquito is whining ever closer to his ear. The label in the neck of his polo shirt feels like it’s drawing blood and there aren't even any stars out.

The irritation of his crewmates radiates through the chilly night air.

"How much fucking longer is this going to take?" Louis hisses through clenched jaws on his right-hand side. “They walk 30 yards and then they board the boat. How is this a problem?”

Without breaking his position in their greeting line, Zayn lifts onto his tiptoes to look over the guard rail to the marina beyond. Between the lines of gently shifting yachts and moth-speckled lamps, he sees a small group of people meandering slowly and unsteadily towards them along the pontoon. 

He tries to ignore the ache in his calves from the long day on his feet, and straightens into his attention pose again. At least there's no wind forecast. Cleaning up after sea-sick guests is everything he can do without for his morning shift, which, he remembers with a sinking feeling, is starting in four and a half hours time.

"They’re in, lads," Liam says quietly at Zayn's other side, looking down over the railing to the walkway that connects the _Calista_ to the pontoon.

Everyone snaps dutifully into silent alertness, listening to the sound of voices from the level below - laughter, the clunk of luggage being planted on the platform, the squeak of the fenders, and then the trudge of footsteps making their way up the steps to the aft-deck, where they're all in line.

The dome of an almost bald head finally appears at the top of the stairway.

"Well, well," a voice booms across the deck, "what a fine greeting party! Everybody up so late! What dedication! Get your arses to bed, you lunatics!"

Zayn sighs quietly - one of those over-friendly, back-slapping types then. He's not allowed to chew his fingernails any more, not if he wants to work the bar, so his tongue's getting the brunt of his tension now, teeth sharply working it over. This hire is going to test his patience, he just knows it. 

It was originally a family booking - they were in the middle of prepping three cabins when Liam suddenly called a briefing to announce they'd instead be picking up just one passenger only. Their focus for the upcoming days was now changed to a business entertainment gig, primarily, until their new owner's family joined them in a week or so.

“Business entertainment”, in Zayn’s experience, has typically been a euphemism for over-lubricated parties, hookers, crass humour and being expected to accommodate random whims at short notice - hog roasts on rocky islands, helicoptered-in caviar deliveries. That kind of thing. But there was nothing for it - he just revisited the cabins to remove the flower arrangements he'd placed there less an hour previously and tried to remind himself why it is he’s still crewing. He’d had a reason once, he'd thought. Adventure, maybe. It doesn’t feel like he’s being adventurous any more … It doesn’t feel much of anything most of the time - everything’s just flat monotony and routine, long hours, checklists and rules, the ever-shifting view through the portholes.

There’s the money, though … At least there’s that.

Fuck, he just wants to sleep.

 

Captain Nigel stands forward to introduce Mr Alastair Fredrickson to the crew, one at a time - Liam, the chief steward; Sven, the engineer; the stewards - Zayn and Daiyu; Patrice, the cook; the deck-hands - Niall and Louis.

"Oh, I can't be expected to remember all this!" Mr Fredrickson booms loudly, slapping the Captain away. He's in his late forties/early fifties, Zayn guesses. He's got the huge, slack-muscled frame of a former rugby player and an accent that indicates he learned to play it at one of those elite, fee-paying schools that are for some reason described in the UK as "public". What remains of his hair is shorn tight over his ears and his mahogany perma-tan is visible even in the moonlight. His loose hawaiian shirt is gaping low enough to reveal wiry silver hairs sprinkled over his chest. 

"Harry!" he's calling back over his shoulder, "you do the names, howabout?"

Zayn turns his head to see a tall, lanky form making its way from the steps onto the deck, a heavily-packed bag slung over one shoulder. 

Zayn can just _feel_ Liam's brain whirring through options on how he's going to deal with this development.

The unexpected guest, this Harry, flips back his long hair and swings his shoulder bag around so he can maneuver from the steps onto the deck. The shift seems to throw him off-balance though, and he stumbles, staggering across the deck on spindly legs, until he knocks right into Zayn with a lung-emptying thump.

Zayn gasps at sensation of tight fingers clasping into his shoulders, as the guy's knees buckle underneath him. Zayn's hand flail out and connect with bony elbows. He ensures his voice is even and friendly as he says, "Whoopsie-daisy," and guides the guy back upright onto his feet, "Are you alright, sir?"

"Whoa, hey," Harry, says, "thanks, mate. No sea-legs yet, I think."

 _Yeah_ , Zayn thinks silently, keeping his smile fixed, _sure it's nothing to do with the strong whiff of alcohol I'm getting from your breath right now either._

"Oh!" Harry gasps and squeezes his hands on Zayn's shoulders and leans back slightly to focus, with a lot of blinking, onto his face, "Oh, wow, how beautiful!" Then he claps his hand over his mouth, eyes wide, and he's snickering behind his fingers, as though it was someone else who just blurted their internal monologue for all to hear.

Zayn flushes, aware of Louis beside him stiffening in stifled laughter. "Uh, thanks," he finds himself responding, but as he steps back into line, he can't stop his eyes roaming over the strong angles of Harry's face, the solidity of his broad shoulders, the sweep of dark hair from his high forehead. 

There's a beat, a moment, when Zayn's flooded with the kind of shit he thought he'd grown out of - heat flaring on his cheeks, that nervous twist in his guts. He drops his eyes, sees the neat tuck of his uniform shirt, the pressed cargo shorts, his ankle socks and deck shoes. He'd laugh then if it was allowed. He's had more than one guest mistakenly infer he's part of the on-board entertainment options, but not usually when he's dressed like this, and not while everyone's standing around watching.

"Well, you must both be tired, let's get you settled in," Liam is saying with typical diplomacy, reaching for Harry's bag.

"Not too late for a nightcap, though, Stew!" Mr Fredrickson's calling back, his arm looped casually over the Captain's shoulder. Zayn winces in sympathy. "Come along Harry, catch up!"

"Night-caps, way hay!" Harry drawls, in a voice so deep Zayn has to look up again to check it's coming from his mouth.

Harry sees him looking and grins back broadly, dimples appearing in his cheeks. He raises his fists and does a ridiculous little shimmy. "Cool! Are we all having night-caps? Oh! We should have White Russians! Cos of the milk! For good sleeps? Yeah?"

He loses balance again, staggering to the left, giggling and muttering - “Stupid boat.” 

Liam comes to Harry's side, taking his elbow gently and gesturing him to follow Mr Fredrickson and the Captain toward the main lounge.

"You can all go below," Liam tells the crew quietly, back over his shoulder, "I'll look after the bar. Just get the luggage sorted and head off."

Zayn could kiss him with relief, but finds himself reluctant to turn away as Liam guides the unsteady Harry towards the Lounge.

 

A _thump_ close by startles him back into focus.

"Jaysus, lads, I didn't think we'd ever get them back here." Niall's groaning from the stepway, immediately reaching behind him to haul the remaining luggage onto the deck. "First, they wouldn't leave the taverna, then that young fella had to stop every two steps and throw stones into the sea - to check for phosphoresence he says - and then the man himself decided he needed to check out every other boat in the marina because he was convinced one of his old school chums was around here somewhere. Pains in the arse, honestly."

"Ah, but was there any mention of how beautiful you are, Niall? That is the key question at present." Louis is asking, reaching for a bag from Niall.

"Shut it," Zayn warns.

"Oh, but such beauty I have never before seen!" Louis continues, clasping his hands over his heart, blinking upwards at the dark sky. "His cheekbones have wrenched apart my soul! His eyelashes have broken my heart into shards of yearning despair!"

"Louis, its been a long day..." Zayn tries again, over Niall's cackling, "How about you just leave it for now?"

Louis opens his mouth, eyes gleaming, but suddenly slumps again, "You know what Zayn? Just this once, I'll give you this one. If I have to stay awake for another 5 minutes, I swear I'll crack."

Zayn inwardly sighs with relief. Ever since they’d departed Marbella Louis’ been more prickly than a cactus. Zayn’s getting to the point of trying to work up the energy to confront him about it, but it isn’t going to happen tonight.

He picks up Harry's bag instead and hesitates, "Hey, where is this one going?"

"Master suite, obviously," Daiyu says, her neat little frame sweeping past, picking up the remaining bag from the deck, and nodding her head towards the doorway to the cabins. 

"All of them, do you think?" Zayn asks after a moment's hesitation.

Niall calls "yep," over his shoulder and disappears back down the steps to secure the walkway for the night. 

"God, yeah," Louis snorts, "Looks like sugar-daddy's planning on having himself some fun before wifey arrives."

Zayn follows him through the doorway and down the narrow corridor that leads to the guest cabins. It's not fitting together really in his mind. "Do you reckon though? Maybe he's, like, his nephew? Or he could be his assistant, or ..."

Daiyu is snorting now. "Seriously, Zayn?"

He frowns at the back of her head. It would be really nice if, just once, that girl could suppress her compulsion to make him feel unworldly and stupid. "I just think we shouldn't jump to conclusions, that's all?" he protests, "We could make it awkward for them. Maybe I should check with Liam before we ..."

"Zayn,” Louis tells him over his shoulder, “it's 2.30 am. Dump the bags. We'll sort it later if it turns out they don't want to do sleepovers."

He decides to give it up. Morning shift is very soon, after all. 

They place the luggage at the foot of the bed in the master suite and Zayn works with Daiyu to turns down the bedding in a careful fold. He places chocolate truffles on the pillows while she dims the lighting to a warm glow.

As they leave, Zayn sees at the soft slouch of Harry's worn canvas bag where it slumps beside Mr Fredrickson’s set of shiny Vuitton hard cases. It isn't his business whether they look like they belong together or not, he reminds himself, and they ease the door closed and head to their cabins to catch a few hours sleep.

 

///

 

Zayn’s back on the aft-deck next morning, standing behind the tiny bar there, trying to make space in the cooler for the platter of carved fruit that’s been sent up from the galley. There’s no sign of the guests so far, but the crew’s had a busy few hours. The boat’s been hosed down, salon areas tidied of any evidence of last night’s late drinking, the breakfast table set and decorated. 

They’re swans. That’s what Liam keeps reminding them - all unruffled grace on the surface, however frantic the paddling underneath.

Zayn glances up and has to squint against the light bouncing up from the sapphire-bright waves. There’s a slight haze blurring the view of the distant city hills, but it’s looking like it’ll be a calm, clear day, the sea-breeze warding off the heat. It’ll be good to get moving again in a few hours, rolling gently over the waves, leaving the mainland behind.

On the other side of the deck, Niall’s hanging on a trapeze holster over the side of the boat, finishing up a final polish of the glass guard rail so that the guests can have an unsullied view over the water. He catches Zayn’s glance, nods once in acknowledgement, his expression so serious that Zayn’s got to turn away to chuckle. He reckons Louis may have a valid point about holding a group intervention to confront Niall about his obsession with salt-spray stain removal.

 

Zayn’s on his knees rearranging the stock inside the fridge when he hears a hesitant “Um, hi?” behind him.

He shoots up onto his feet immediately, cursing that he’s been caught off guard, glancing around to make sure Liam hasn’t seen his lack of attention. 

It’s Harry, his face half-hidden behind huge sunglasses. He’s wearing a brightly patterned shirt which he’s left unbuttoned to reveal a very tattooed torso. Zayn tugs jealously on the cuffs of his long sleeves. Crew are not allowed visible tattoos. It only bugs him when the guests get to show off their ink right in front of him.

“Good morning, sir.” Zayn puts on the smile Liam made him practice in a mirror, because his original one looked too much like he had just stood on a thumbtack, apparently. “How are you? What can I get you?”

Harry’s face bursts into a grin which he immediate tries to swallow back. Zayn wonders what he’s said to cause amusement, but then Harry’s speaking, his voice croaky, like he’s still half-asleep, and that takes up a lot of attention.

“Hi. I’m good, thank you. Wow - that fruit looks good. Is that just for, like, decoration or can we eat it?”

“You can definitely eat it.” Zayn tells him, because _yes_ is the answer to every single guest request ever. He puts the fruit platter down on the counter between them. “Would you like breakfast out here, sir? Or the dining room’s ready too?”

Harry smirks again, biting his lip.

“I’ll wait for Al and see what he wants to do. He’s just making some calls. Actually, though, would coffee be a possibility right now? Or, I can wait, if it’s easier to deal with us at the same time?”

Zayn reaches for the phone, so he can pass the orders down to the galley. “No problem sir, how do you like it?”

Harry’s lips curl into a smile, but then he presses them tight as though like he’s trying to suppress it.

Zayn’s hand wanders to his face to check for missed shaving foam or something else embarrassing - whatever it is that’s amusing Harry. This hasn’t been happening as often lately - the hot flare of suspicion there’s some joke he hasn’t been let in on. Growing up, he’d become too familiar with it - his boys clamming up just after launching into their _only white people_ skits, the smirks his Welsh cousins swapped when they came back from their Disneyland holiday and asked him if he had fun in Torquay, the feeling he wasn’t quite keeping up when the nerds got together to swap comics after school. It’s been one of the main things he’s liked about the boat - being on the inside of the gang for once, snickering in a quiet corner with the rest of the crew, rolling eyes together about the latest outrageous guest demand.

“Could you make it an espresso?” Harry’s saying, “And I’ll have, like, a gallon of water, please, if that’s OK. Oh - do you guys do smoothies?” But then his eyebrows shoot over the top of his sunglasses, as he leans up on his tiptoes to survey the cooler contents, “Hey! Is that bubbly in there? We could have Buck’s Fizz, couldn’t we? That counts as breakfast, right?” 

“Certainly, sir.” Zayn’s beginning to feel on edge, because Harry keeps beaming at him like he’s the magician at a kid’s birthday party and he hasn’t even started responding to any of his orders yet.

“Shit, sorry, that’s too much isn’t it?” Harry asks, slumping onto his elbows, his cheeks dimpling with his grin, his voice still slow and gravelly. “Sometimes I have problems making decisions. I’m a bit crap like that. Yeah, so scrap everything. I’ll stick with the Bucks Fizz because it's got fruit and also because my goal today is to stay slightly drunk. Best way to avoid a hangover, don’t you think?”

“A lot of our guests certainly seem to think so,” Zayn tells him, nodding as agreeably as he can muster.

Harry’s smile drops and his brow furrows, staring at Zayn through his shades in sudden unmasked disappointment. 

Zayn swallows. Shit, he’s done something wrong. What’s he done wrong?. 

“Aw!” Harry is saying, shaking his head sorrowfully, “You didn’t do it.”

Zayn chews his lip, trying to think what it is he’s forgotten.

“You didn’t call me sir, this time,” Harry continues, “I feel a bit let down, now.”

“Oh.” Zayn flushes and looks away. He sighs inwardly. It’s always the ones who start out extra friendly … “I’m sorry, sir.” He turns to get the champagne.

“Wait!” Zayn’s wrist is suddenly enveloped in tight fingers, and he’s being tugged back around.

“Shit, you know I’m joking, right?”

Zayn looks up and sees Harry’s pulled off his shades and is looking concernedly at him, eyes wide and worried.

“Oh,” Zayn fights the urge to pull his wrist back out of Harry’s grip, because that would probably be rude. “That’s OK,” he reassures Harry, “I’m supposed to. I don’t mind.” He hesitates, then decides to just go for it. “… sir.”

Harry snickers, sinking back into his stool, “I thought you were just doing it to take the piss, to be honest. We must be, like, the same age.”

“Yes, but, you’re a guest. It’s just to help you feel like you’re being looked after.” Zayn says quietly. There’ve been plenty of guests a lot younger than Harry he’s addressed as sir. There was one kid of twelve who clicked his fingers at Zayn for three weeks whenever he wanted a soda and never once said thank you. 

Zayn finds he’s staring at Harry’s broad palm circling his wrist and can’t quite figure out how to stop. Harry’s got a cross tattooed on the back of his hand, down from the thumb, and a dark purple bruise blazes just beside the knob of his wrist bone.

“Oh! Sorry!” Harry says, suddenly releasing him. “No concept of personal space! You can add that to the list of my failings.”

Zayn shoots a small smile back at him, hoping it is covering up the relief he’s feeling at being freed. His heart-rate might slow down again now. Hopefully. “Oh, that’s OK. It’s fine.”

“That, and saying stupid stuff when I’m drunk. Which, I’m told, you may have found out last night.”

Zayn glances up again, to check. Harry’s not looking at all apologetic really, but he still says, “Sorry about that too.”

“Anyway, just call me Harry. That’s me name,” he continues, his accent suddenly going very northern. “Or Haz. That’s what they used to call me back home.” 

He slides his sunglasses onto the top of his head, “Amongst other things,” he adds, grinning. He’s got dark circles under his eyes but a brightness floods his face when he smiles.

“Oh yeah?” Zayn can’t help encouraging. He likes Harry’s voice, he’s decided, so thick and slow, like syrup. He feels the mellow reverberation of it seeping deep into the marrow of spine, in that spot that’s right between his hipbones.

Harry leans on his elbows on the bar, widening his smile so those dimples reappear in his cheeks. “Oh yes, they had lots of names for me - H, Harold, Dipshit, Looper, Arsehat … you know … the usual stuff.”

Zayn laughs and tells him, “Maybe you need some new friends.”

There’s a fraction of a second when Harry looks like he’s been slapped, a lightening flash passing through his eyes, before he quickly recovers and grins back through lowered eyelids, holding Zayn’s gaze steadily as he says, “Yeah, well, I’m totally up for that,” and grabs a strawberry from the platter and bites on it, licking the juice slowly from his lips.

Despite his re-elevated heart rate, Zayn finds himself smiling back. He didn’t know eyes came in that colour. It takes him back to his very first crew job, that lagoon in St Lucia, where the waters glowed impossibly jade.

Then behind them, at the end of the deck, a movement catches Zayn’s attention. It’s Louis, quietly sweeping by, his eyebrows raised and a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

Zayn snaps up straight and looks around for the ice. “Let me get you those drinks, si-… Harry,” he says.

Harry grins again, sliding from his seat. “OK … Zayn? Right?” he checks the name badge on the front of Zayn’s shirt, then drifts away towards the loungers, “I’ll just be over here, in the sunshine.”

 

///

 

It ends up being a weird day, sort of shitty actually - so much so that when Daiyu shows up in the laundry room where Zayn’s been working for hours he’s actually glad to see her for once. 

There’d been that thing, with the stain on the bedsheet, he’s been trying not to think about. It wasn’t like it was a huge or anything - it was just one small red circle, about the size of a pound coin. He’d looked up the manual and confirmed that bloodstains on cotton just need a quick cold rinse and all would be fine. There had been some other, familiar, stains on the sheets too - no mystery about their source… easily washed clean. So … seemed like everyone had been right about rooming the two men together. And that was all, Zayn told himself, totally cool.

“Hey, Dai,” he asks, after she’s put a load of towels into the drier, “Did we just swing back around? Felt like we turned?”

She rolls her eyes, leaning into the doorway, “Oh yeah, we’re heading back towards land - our owner’s shocked to discover that our wifi-coverage gets somewhat patchy out in the middle of the sea.”

Zayn snorts, and lifts the pressed sheet from the ironing board, flapping it out in her direction until she gets the hint and takes the edges to help him fold it up neatly. 

“He’s been stuffed in the top salon all day, so far, shutters closed. Do you get that, though?” she says. “Like why pay 70K a week for a motoryacht charter and then shut yourself up working, just like you do when you’re at home? I do not understand.”

Zayn shakes his head, smiling wryly. He doesn’t get it either. Neither did he get why Harry’s smile had slipped so quickly from his face that morning too, just after they’d talked. He’d not been able to stop himself from flickering glances over in Harry’s direction after he’d gone to slump on a lounger on the deck. Zayn had seen how, when he thought no one was watching, a cloud had descended over Harry’s face and he had sunk into stillness, stared straight ahead, expressionless, letting his champagne cocktail go flat. He’d stayed there rolling the pendant of his necklace over his lips, watching the glittering sea through the glass partition until Al had eventually shown up an hour later. It felt like a weather front closing in, Zayn thought, even though the sun was steady overhead the whole time.

“We do not ask why, Daiyu,” he reminds her, “we’re just here to serve and keep ‘em happy.”

“No, Zayn. We’re here for the tips,” she grins, slapping the folded sheet onto his head, “Silly boy!”

“Louis said when you’re on the bar tonight, you’re to try to get Liam drinking, by the way,” Daiyu continues as she squeezes past him, “I did not ask why. It doesn’t interest me. He’s being strange again.”

And Louis.

That’s the other thing.

Zayn doesn’t think Louis has realised that he’d seen him, through the laundry-room doorway that afternoon, crossing over and back, carrying something heavy inside a backpack up from the engine room to his cabin, returning with an empty bag, and crossing again with a heavy one, over and again, five times.

Zayn thinks he’s figured it out, and he can’t believe it, can’t believe Louis would do this to them all, to Nigel in particular - who’s really been as decent a Captain as anyone could hope for. 

He’s going to have to talk to him. And that’s going to be horrible.

A weird, shitty little day.

 

///

 

Zayn’s stationed at the lounge bar now while Mr Frederickson is pouring over sea charts, empty tumblers keeping the corners pinned to the table across from him. He’s sipping from his glass of aged scotch, using the pinky of his hand to point at things, while Liam and Captain Nigel lean in, answering his questions.

“Hey Zayn. How’ve you been all day?”

Zayn turns to find Harry at the corner of the bar. He’s changed into dark, tight jeans and a faded band t-shirt that gapes over his collar bones. He’s already got a glass of something amber in his hand and a slight glaze about his eyes. He looks younger than he did in the morning, for some reason. None of it does anything for Zayn’s weird mood, which he has no intention of admitting to.

He pulls his eyes up from Harry’s thighs and manages to answer, “I’ve been fine, thanks. How are you?” 

Harry shrugs, runs his fingers up through his loose hair, dragging it back from his forehead, “Oh - good enough, yeah. Guess what I found out though?”

“What?” 

There’s one loose strand of hair that Harry has dislodged and it’s sticking up weirdly from the right side of his head. Zayn’s fingers are itching to reach for it and settle it back behind his ear. 

“Well,” Harry stands up straight, his eyes widening dramatically, “I wish to announce I today discovered it is possible to be drunk _and_ have a hangover at the same time! Did you know that?”

Zayn feels his lips curling into a gentle smile, not the practiced one. Harry’s face has dipped into this cute expression of exaggerated sorrow and it’s making Zayn feel like he’s just eaten a bowl of his grandmother’s rice pudding.

“Yeah,” Harry continues, leaning his hip into the bar again, “it’s been like, both swirly and headachey. I’m not sure I’d recommend it.” 

“You been out in the sun all day, too?” Zayn asks, noticing the slight tinge of pink along the top of Harry’s nose and forehead. “You need to hydrate, ba-” 

He stops himself, blinking in shock and quickly turns around, reaching for a bottle of water and emptying it into a glass with ice. If Harry noticed he almost called him babe, he doesn’t acknowledge it when Zayn faces him again, just takes the water and beams back like Zayn’s concern for him has reignited his passion for life. 

Zayn has to look away then. He knows he’s frowning, and that it probably isn’t very polite of him, but Harry’s just … a lot of handsome … and sweet expressions and cheeky sparkles in his eyes and … it’s been a while. Probably that’s all it is... And today has been too much, all over, and … he was beautiful last night apparently ... So, yeah…

Zayn needs to get a grip of himself. 

Mr Fredrickson wanders up behind Harry and drops a hand on his shoulder.

“Well then!” he booms, “enjoyed you first day at sea, Harry?” 

Zayn tries to busy himself behind the bar so it doesn’t seem like he’s listening in on their conversation, but he can’t think of anything to do except ineffectually shovel the ice around in its bucket.

“Yeah, thanks Al,” Harry says. “Just chilled out on the deck, really, read a bit.”

Then Zayn feels it again, the storm cloud that must be just over the horizon.

Al’s voice drops to an uncharacteristic hush when he speaks again, looming over Harry. “Now do we have to have another chat about this? I thought we had an agreement? Didn’t we? No more of it, Harry. I won’t have it.”

Zayn glances at subtly as he can and sees Harry’s gone rigid, his face fixed, blank.

“Fuck, Harry,” Al’s voice continues in its low rumble, “Didn’t we agree?” Zayn notices Al's fingers are digging so deeply into the back of Harry's neck, he's squeezing white bloodless circles into his flesh.

“I’m trying,” Harry says softly. “I swear. I was just a bit tired today, that’s all.”

“Hey! Liam!” Zayn flinches at the volume of Mr Fredrickson’s sudden shout across the room.

“Your guys got to keep this young chap here occupied. Stop him moping about, right?! He’s here for some cheering up.” He slaps the back of Harry’s shoulder and rocks him so hard he reaches for the bar to steady himself. “I want to make sure he has a good time this trip, yeah? You’ve got to make sure he’s entertained, man!”

Harry smiles at the floor, while Liam stammers reassurances to Mr Fredrickson. 

“So, what would you like to do tomorrow, Harry?” Liam’s asking, coming over. “What about some jet-skiing? Or, we could take out the tender for some fishing? Or …”

Harry turns his mega-watt beam onto Liam, silencing him, “Sounds great, Liam. Yeah, jet skis, cool. Maybe we'll see some dolphins or something.”

Liam’s warm brown eyes look troubled. Zayn plunges the little shovel into the bucket again. 

Harry knocks back the last of his drink, ice cubes clinking around his mouth as he drains the very last dregs from his glass. “Really,” he grins again, slamming his glass back onto the bar. “Whatever, Al, I told you. I’m easy.”

Al opens his mouth to speak and then stops himself. He and Harry seem to both get the same joke at the same time and start chuckling at each other.

Zayn and Liam’s eyes meet briefly and swivel away again quickly, before they get caught.

“Harry’ll have another JD and ginger now, barkeep!” Al slaps his hand at the bar, making everyone jump. “Keep this one happy for me, boys! Oh, bring up a couple of steaks for us - rare. And tell the chef if I see a mushroom anywhere in the vicinity of the plate, he’ll be losing his thumbs. That’s the ticket.”

Zayn watches Harry follow Al across the lounge and over to the chart, where his long, lean frame bending over the table makes Zayn’s stomach muscles clench. 

Harry glances over his shoulder and catches Zayn looking and there’s just a second when it seems like there’s a question there, in his eyes. Zayn stares back, trying to read somewhere in his expression what it might be that Harry is asking for. But the moment passes quickly and Harry’s face returns to his usual easy smile. 

He checks behind him briefly and when he sees that Al’s concentrating on rolling up the chart, he turns back to Zayn, boggles his eyes comically and lets his tongue hang loosely sideways in an alarmingly accurate Homer Simpson impression while he mouths something that looks very like “mushrooms om nom nom”.

Zayn’s dips his head to hide the grin he’s really not sure he should be allowing to appear.

 

///

 

It's late the next day before Zayn manages to corner Louis for "a talk". He's only slightly narky about it, surprisingly enough, so there’s that at that at least. It isn’t every day, after all, that you have to ask your friend to confirm whether or not he is now a drug smuggler, and if so, could he please not do that any more?

“You’re making a big thing of it, granma.” Louis says, glancing behind Zayn as they squeeze into a nook behind some pipes in the engine room, “It’s just a few bricks of hash, I’m pretty sure. I’m literally just holding it for a couple of weeks, max, so don’t worry, seriously.”

“You’re ‘pretty sure it’s hash’? You don’t even know what you’re holding?”

“Well, it’s all wrapped up. I’m not going to open it up to check Zayn. I don’t think these dudes would like that very much, and we really don’t want to go upsetting them, trust me.”

Zayn stares at him. It’s “we” now, already. He could strangle Louis, he really could.

“Look, it’s just doing a favour for a mate,” Louis bristles, “Christos - you remember Christos - deckie on the Artemis? Well, ran into him in Marbella and turns out he was just over from Morocco and in a pickle because he reckoned the SVA were all over the place so he couldn’t unload anything there, and he asked if I’d drop the stuff over to his guys in Athens. He offered a cut of the deal to help him out, and he’s a good guy, so I figured why not? Everyone in this neck of the woods are busy with the refugee boats these days so checking luxury yachts for this kind of thing isn’t on the radar. When was the last time Customs even boarded us, Zayn? It’ll be cool.”

“But we’ve already left Athens, Louis. Why do you still even have it?”

“Blame Nigel! Why couldn’t he have moored us in Pireus like every other time? It was all set up that I’d meet the other guys in a bar there, but when we ended up in the other marina, I couldn’t get the message out in time. Anyway, I’m trying to get hold of Christos to sort a new drop off point and that’ll be that. It’s just a couple of days Zayn, no biggie, chill.”

Zayn swallows, “Louis! Are you serious?! So now, the guys you were supposed to meet think you’ve disappeared with their supply?”

Louis narrows his eyes at him, “Zayn, you are getting very squeaky and it isn’t attractive. I’ll sort it. I promise.”

Zayn shuts his eyes and tries to make himself take some deep breaths. He feels Louis clamping his two hands down on his shoulders.

“Zayn, really. Relax. I’ll sort it.”

 

///

 

They’re on their way back through the hatch from the engine room, when a sudden crash brings them to a halt. 

Zayn clutches at the back of Louis’ shirt as it dawns on him that he may be slightly responsible the rising decibel of noise from the galley as they both nervously peer around the side of the doorway that - to the right - leads to the galley and crew lounge, and, to the left - opens onto the corridor of tiny crew cabins.

A string of french curses emanates through the open galley door, and after another clanging explosion, Louis looks back over his shoulder at Zayn with one eyebrow raised accusingly. Zayn glares back because Louis trying to guilt-trip him right now is just not acceptable.

“Oh my God, what’s happening?”

They both jump and whirl around to find Harry standing behind them, in swim shorts and unbuttoned shirt, wide-eyed and leaning forward to try to peer around them to see what is going on.

“Shusssh!” Louis reaches out and plants his hand into the middle of Harry’s chest, pushing him backwards. “Shit, Harry! What are you doing down here?”

Zayn’s sets aside his current irritation with Louis to wonder how it is that he’s somehow that level of familiarity with their guest after just two days. He wonders where he was when it was developing and realises, not for the first time, that the deckies definitely have an easier time of it on board - messing around with the guests and the toys while he’s scrubbing loos beneath the waterline.

“Just exploring,” Harry answers mildly, then flinches at the sound of another clatter exploding from around the corner, “What’s going on?”

“If my guess is correct,” Louis explains, “Zayn put the pots back in the wrong cabinet. And when the cook gets upset he throws things. Including the knives. So now we’re going to have to live in this corridor for the rest of our lives.”

Zayn slides a hand over his mouth to block out his laughter, because, fuck, what is his life lately? He sees Harry glance in his direction, the shift that occurs in his expression - a glint of delight appearing in his eyes when he sees Zayn laughing behind his fingers.

Louis slaps Zayn’s hand back from his face, “Did you do it on purpose, Zayn?” he hisses, “Fucksake!”

“No!” Zayn protests, but Louis just makes a skeptical expression, so he shrugs, and admits, “Well he’s put ham in the frittata for two mornings in a row now. And I told him …”

There’s another smash and some more swearing.

“Wow, he’s really angry,” Harry says, as a series of door slams follow the curses. 

“There goes this afternoon’s break,” Louis sighs, puffing his fringe out of his eyes. “And I was on late watch last night - I really needed a snooze.”

Zayn tilts his head in agreement. He’s also been craving a couple of hours alone in his cabin, just a tiny slice of time to be. Think. Not think. He maybe didn’t fully consider all the implications of his little revenge plot.

“Really,” Harry announces, his hands on his hips, “are two sons of England really going to allow yourselves to be bullied by a Frenchman having a tantrum? Was it for this our forefathers bled on the fields of Waterloo?”

Zayn and Louis blink at him. That’s a lot to get served, right there.

Harry shakes his head in sorrowful disappointment at them, “Leave this to me.”

He squeezes past them and turns right, ignoring Louis’ stage whispered “No! Harry! Don’t!”

Harry glances narrow-eyed over his shoulder, clenches his fist over his heart and says, “For England and glory,” before sliding sideways in through the galley doorway.

“Shit,” Louis laughs, slumping back against the wall, “there he goes then. He’s funny, that one.”

Zayn stares at the empty doorway. He is actually a little bit worried. Maybe they should have mentioned that Patrice is from Quebec.

“Well,” Louis sighs, “we tried. It’s his funeral … and …” he cocks his head to the sudden silence, “… my naptime after all, apparently.”

He disappears down the corridor toward the staff cabins and Zayn quickly follows, grinning to himself because, honestly, how cute was all that? And, also, helpful. Harry seems like he’s a good and helpful person to have around, who, unlike Louis, seems unlikely to land him in jail one day. That’s a characteristic Zayn has recently, like - very recently, come to appreciate in a person. 

 

////

 

“Oh hey, sexy secretary! I’m digging it!”

Zayn looks up in shock as the door of his cabin swings open violently, banging into the wall. “Oops!” Harry’s claps his hand over his mouth, “Sorry. I did not know that opening doors gets me this excited before now!”

He laughs and flings himself onto Zayn’s bunk, a half-full glass of something creamy yellow in his hand. He leans onto an elbow so he’s curled over Zayn’s legs. Zayn draws himself up into a lotus position to put an appropriate distance between them, prodding his glasses up on his nose.

“Also, the new look is hugely distracted to me, Zaynie,” Harry continues, squinting at him. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

Zayn blinks stupidly, he drops a glance down at his sketchpad where he’s drawn a large butterfly/moth thing, and quickly closes it over before Harry sees it. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and ripped denim, so he’s really not sure where Harry’s getting secretary vibes from. It wasn’t a look he was going for. “Um, hi Harry, you got Patrice settled down then?” he asks hesitantly.

Harry smiles smugly, “Yeah. Convinced him to bake muffins with me. You can have them for brekkie tomorrow Zayn, definitely no ham involved.” He slurps through his straw before continuing, “Then we made rum daquiries with the leftover bananas so now I’m drunk again, oh well.”

Niall wanders through the doorway, “Hey Harry,” he says casually, kicking off his shoes and jumping up onto his bunk overhead.

Zayn wonders again how it is that everyone’s treating Harry like he’s part of the furniture. He’s kinda peeved about it. He’s not sure if he approves of guests violating the tiny portion of the boat the crew are allowed to themselves. Especially not when they’re only half-dressed, a bit pissed and all floppy limbed on your bed.

“Niall!” Harry grins, grasping on Niall’s ankle where its swinging down from overhead, close to his face, “look at Zayn not in his uniform! Isn’t he dashing?”

Niall’s feet disappear and then his face peers over the edge of the bunk. He looks Zayn up and down and blinks blankly. Zayn feels a frown arrive on his forehead, and he tugs on the neck of his soft, over-washed shirt. 

“How come you’re not in your uniform?” Niall asks, disappearing again, “thought you were serving tonight?”

“I am,” Zayn tells him. “Just on a break.”

Because, Zayn doesn’t say, there are moments when he feels that the cells of his skin have merged into that frickin’ cargo shorts and starched shirt ensemble, that there’s no part of of him left that exists outside of it. Sometimes, that’s what he likes about working here - the anonymity, that fact people’s expectations of him extend no further than that he’ll be the one to put ice in their drinks. But, then, other times he wants to rip the uniform off and burn it, right in the middle of the scrubbed, teak deck and yell at anyone who’ll listen - I am more than this!

Harry’s poking at the bunk overhead, giggling, his tongue chasing the straw of his drink, his bare legs folded over Zayn’s blanket. 

“Stop it Zayn,” Niall’s calling down.

“It’s not me!” Zayn protests. And this room is too small for three people, his brain screams. It’s making him hot.

“This must be fun though, cosied up here after work for chats and giggles,” Harry says. He’s now tracing the straw along the sole of Niall’s foot where it’s overhanging the bunk, watching his toes flex in response. “I mean,” he pauses and looks around the tiny cabin, “it’s snug. Bijou, you could say. Do you like it here?”

Niall barks out a laugh above them and kicks away Harry’s hand. “Yes Harry, how did you know? It’s all midnight feasts and secrets, and then Zayn braids my hair and we pinky swear to be bffs forever.”

Harry grins delightedly. “I knew it.”

“Nah,” Niall continues, “it’s all good. I mean, the money is crazy good, and you just can’t spend it because your your digs and food are covered, but we’re all more or less agreed to give it up after another year. Got plans, man.”

“Yeah? That’s smart. I used to have those too ...” Harry’s not really sounding all that interested because he seems to have only then to notice the collage that Zayn’s pasted along the wall beside his bunk. It’s something Zayn’s been slowly adding to for the time he’s been on the yacht - it started with photos of his family, but now its also got his sketches mixed in, some cartoons he’s drawn, postcards and mementos from places they’ve visited. Zayn’s not sure how he feels about Harry looking at it. It’s the inside of his head.

“Oh wow,” Harry says, slowly taking it in, “this is amazing Zayn. You did this?”

Niall’s head suddenly appears over the edge of the bunk again.

“Isn’t it sick?!” he exclaims, smiling broadly. “Look at this one.” He points to a cartoon doodle Zayn did of the guys a few weeks ago - the crew all transformed into sea monsters, their faces rising from a cresting wave.

Harry chuckles, then smiles brightly at Zayn. “That’s so good Zayn. Aw, look at the dolphins! I’d love to see some dolphins, man.”

His eyes drift along until he’s looking at Zayn’s photos.

“Oh my God, are these all your family? There’s loads of you! That’s amazing!” He keeps grinning as Zayn mumbles that the photo is a mix of cousins and kids from his mosque, but Harry’s not really listening, just gasping again and pointing at a photo of Saafa cuddling their old dog.

“Oh wow, is that your sister? She is so fucking cute! Oh!” he cast an anxious glance at Zayn, “Sorry for swearing about your sister.”

Zayn hugs his sketchbook to his chest.

“Is that your plan then? Are you going to be an artist?”

Zayn’s fingers are tight around his notebook. He shakes his head. “Nah, its just messing around. I’m not that good really. It just … helps me relax, you know? When I need to get out of my head.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, totally. That’s why I used to bake. Had kinda forgotten how much I liked it ‘til today. I can’t do anything fancy but Patrice said he’d show me a few things, when he’s not too busy with Al’s business dinners.”

That reminds Zayn - they’re due to host additional dinner guests tonight. He needs to get back to polish the silverware. 

“So, Niall?” Harry tugs on his ankle again, “What’s the big plan then?”

Niall’s head hangs back down over the bunk. “Me and the guys - we’re saving up. Gonna buy a pub, man. Somewhere sunny, right by a beach. Happy days…”

Niall nods his head towards Zayn, “He’s in on it, even though he pretends he’s not interested.”

Harry follows Niall’s gesture, tilting his head a Zayn. “How come? Is there something else you want to do instead?”

Zayn frowns because yes, there’s something else he wants to do other than owning a bar with someone as impetuous as Louis, and as laid back as Niall, and who’ll both inevitably drink away any profits they make. But he just can’t figure out what it is. His parents are determined it’ll be a University degree, if they have anything to do with it, but … Louis keeps laughing at the idea of it - tells him he’s mad to land himself into debt just to pick up a qualification that’ll get him no further than a zero hours contract in retail.

Harry’s smiling sympathetically at him. “Yeah, I dunno either,” and Zayn’s confused because he hadn’t actually said anything out loud. His face is still doing that thing, he realises, where its revealing everything he’s feeling. He thought he’d trained himself out of it.

“So what about you Harry?” Niall asks, “What was your plan? You’re doing Law right?”

Harry sighs a little bit, but stops it mid-way through which somehow hurts Zayn’s chest. He pulls himself in from his sprawl to coil up at the very end of Zayn’s bunk and pinches his bottom lip. “Yeah, um, I dunno. I used to think I’d wanted to do something in human rights, like, equality issues? But … that was … a bit naive of me, maybe. I used to be idealistic about that stuff and, I … uh …”

A sadness descends over Harry’s face. He traces his fingertips along a crumple in Zayn’s blanket.

“I don’t think I’ve got the right kind of brain for it. I mean, I can memorise all the case law and stuff but … Someone I knew … um, one of my lecturers, said when you’re actually in practice, it’s all about the negotiation, being able to read other people, figure out their real motivation. 

“And, like, I’m not good at that. I’m not good at figuring people out. I always seem to get them wrong.”

“You giving it up then, your degree?” Zayn asks, before he can stop himself and Harry shoots him a surprised look like he hadn’t thought he’d been listening. He takes an age to answer.

“I dunno, probably not.” He stares back into his glass. “Just got my results today actually … Didn’t think I’d even pass, but I did OK.”

“Congrats, mate!” Niall calls down, and Zayn tries to smile over in agreement, but Harry’s not looking. His face is crumpled in a deep frown and he’s swirling the remnants of his daquiri around in his glass. He knocks it all back suddenly, Zayn watches his Adam’s apple move in his throat as he gulps.

“Al’s saying I should stick it out.” Harry says, after smacking his lips together, “He’s in property and thinks I should specialise in that area. He can make lots of introductions for me.”

Harry drifts off, and Zayn can feel the pulse of anxiety in his veins.

He looks up at Zayn then, meets his eyes. The stare at each other for a breath, and another, and then he watches Harry arrange his face into a bright smile.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Maybe you’re much more like a moody poet than a sexy secretary, now that I look at you again, Zayn.”

“Oh God!” Niall’s cracking up in his bunk, “don’t encourage him, it’s hard enough to separate him from his mirror already!” 

Zayn gets up to whack him with his pillow and get changed for his shift. He hesitates just for a second before pulling off his t-shirt and reaching into his locker for his uniform shirt. When he glances over his shoulder he finds Harry watching closely.

“Sorry,” he says, startled at being caught staring, and gets out of the bunk, “I’ll leave you to it. Better go get ready too.”


	2. Aegina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter because it was just a short stop in Aegina.

Zayn not been able to keep his eyes off Harry all night. He’s really scrubbed well up for this dinner with Al’s guests - his hair loose over his shoulders, glossy and thick. He’s in a tight-fitted dark shirt, unbuttoned, as always, to the middle of his chest, and he’s all smiles and charm at the table, cracking jokes and shooting his dimpled grin at the two jewel-dripping ladies, while Al guffaws with their husbands and talks up the unprecedented acquisition opportunities the Greek economic crisis has churned up.

It turns out, to Zayn’s surprise, that Al’s definition of business entertainment seems to be just that - he’s hosting two clients and their partners this evening, middle-aged couples he’s flown out so he can present a proposal. They seem a little sniffy at first that they’re not on the “milk run” between St Tropez and Monte Carlo, but Al keeps booming about the refined delights of the Saronic Islands, the wisdom of keeping away from the hoard - in business too, keeping watchful and apart, spotting an opportunity before it’s over-run and ruined by the mob. The Chablis is kept flowing and it seems like everyone’s having a nice time.

Everyone except Zayn, that is. But then, he's not even supposed to fully exist right now. He's just a server on standby, silent, deaf and blind to everything except satisfying his guests' needs.

It's funny, when he thinks about it sometimes, all the intimate things he’s ended up knowing about the strangers they’d hosted on board. All their weird habits and secret stashes that they seemed to forget would be apparent to whoever washed their sheets or unpacked their luggage or cleaned their bathrooms. Or even worse, the ones who knew and didn’t care, who just left a few extra dollars on the bedside locker and didn’t meet his eyes when they say goodbye.

It makes Zayn shudder a little bit. Not at the messes he’s had to clean, he’s well over that, but at the way those people didn’t even see them - the crew - as real. As if they were just part of the scenery, same as the waves sweeping clean the beaches every tide. 

Of all the superpowers Zayn used to wish for as a kid, being invisible wasn’t ever one of them. Those vintage Invisible Man comics his Dad had boxed away under his bed used to fill him with horror - the thought of being so insubstantial, so overlooked and inconsequential. Funny, in a way, that that’s just how he’s ended up, when his whole purpose for leaving home was to stand out from everyone else he knew, to do something different, something more significant.

But all that's significant about Zayn these days is that he gets to see it all, in watchful silence. He sees everything.

Like, tonight. This odd thing - Harry keeps tugging awkwardly at one portion of his hair, pulling it down so it curls from behind his right ear into the collar of his shirt. And Al looks over pointedly every now and then, if Harry sinks into silence, and then he straightens up in his seat and smiles at whoever’s speaking, looking very engaged and interested all of a sudden.

Zayn's trying to figure it out when gets temporarily distracted by the sight through the windows of Louis taking off towards the Aegina seafront on a jet ski, his hair flattened back from his head as he speeds over the water. There’s no way this excursion has been sanctioned by the Captain, and Zay just has to hope that everyone’s attention will be too focused on this formal to notice Louis’ absence. Maybe this little trip will resolve the issue of the unauthorised cargo that Louis’ got stashed somewhere below their feet.

One of the women is waving her empty glass at Zayn, and he flushes at being caught off guard, hurrying forward to take the wine from the ice-bucket and refilling her glass, twisting the bottle with a practiced flourish to stopper any drips. The conversation seems to have moved onto politics - one of them expressing relief that the tv news has been proven incorrect, and how nice it is that they haven’t come across any drowned refugees so far.

“Oh, that’s all happening far away from here, Larry.” Al says. “Don’t go near Crete these days. Over-run by them I’ve heard.”

“It’s all just terrible, the state of things,” the women says, readjusting her necklace, “I can’t think where to book for the children’s spring holiday.” 

Zayn feels her eyes running up and down his face as he leans in over her shoulder to refill her glass. Then she glances over at Daiyu who is collecting dessert plates on his left.

“Such a mix in the crew, Alastair,” she says then. “It’s quite … charming. You dear, where are you from?”

Zayn blinks in surprise at being addressed directly for the first time all night, “Oh um, Bradford, madam,” he tells her.

She frowns, sipping at her wine. “Oh, well … I mean originally.”

Zayn blinks. He sees Harry sitting up straighter on the woman’s other side. 

“Originally Bradford, too, madam,” Zayn says. He catches a sharp look from Al then so he sighs inwardly and concedes, “One half of my family are from Pakistan though, on my Dad’s side.” But my Dad was born in Bradford too, he keeps back. And he smiles. He knows he is smiling, he knows, because he’s had plenty of practice at this - smiling while wondering just how many generations it is going to take before that question stops being asked.

“Bradford!” the man beside Al guffaws, “Well, bet you’re glad to get out of there then. So, sending them back postcards are you? Or do they all think you’ve run away to join the jihad or what have you?”

Liam comes out of nowhere, grabbing his elbow and sweeping him around. “We need you in the galley Zayn,” he announces, his fingers not all that gentle, digging into his arm, into the small of his back. “Straight away.”

 

There’s no mollycoddling on the boat. A scourer is shoved into Zayn’s hands as soon as he gets to the galley and he works it out on Patrice’s pans, scrubbing so hard they’re gleaming. There’s nothing else to do about it. Daiyu puts up with getting her arse grabbed along with the racism on a fairly regular basis and doesn’t make a fuss, she’d reminded him the first time something like that had happened. If he really can’t deal with the various forms of casual prejudice and disrespect regularly dished out by their guests, then he’s just in the wrong job. Because, she said, there are plenty of people who will happily swallow it down, along with the very gigantic tips.

 

It takes forever to do the clean-up. They’d used the Wedgwood so they have to handwash all the china, and, as soon as that’s done, they move onto polishing the crystal.

Sven’s arrived back from dropping the visitors back to their boat, and is sitting at the bench, sipping the mug of Nesquik he insists he can’t sleep without, when a familiar loud voice booms, “Knock, knock, folks.”

They look up to see Al in the doorway, Harry hovering like a shadow behind him, head dipped.

“Well, just popping in to say well done, gang. Marvelous meal, everything delightful. I think my guests were most pleased, most pleased indeed.”

He nods to himself, pushing his hands into his pockets.

Daiyu breaks the uneasy quiet, “Thank you, sir. It’s nice of you to come down to say so.”

Al beams at her, and Zayn sees Harry shift on his feet, behind Al, nudging against his back, very slightly.

Al hesitates for the briefest of moments and then looks pointedly at Zayn, “You all did a great job, all you chaps. I know they weren’t the easiest of guests. Apologies of course for any offence that may have been caused. Just a little joke after a few too many drinks - no harm meant at all.”

Zayn looks at Harry over Al’s shoulder. He’s slumping even lower, biting his lip, the frown between his eyebrows is deep enough to mine for coal.

“It’s fine,” Zayn says quietly, watching him, “don’t worry, really.” And he’s a bit surprised when it’s Al that answers, with a clap of his hands, “Great! Knew you were a sensible chap!”

“I had a word with your boss, so how about you all take tomorrow afternoon off? I’ve told Nigel to steam on to Poros - let you guys loose for some shore leave. Sounds like a plan, yeah? Right then.”

He claps his hands again and beams at everyone. “A scotch on ice and your best Cuban, I think. Bring it up to the top deck. Think I’ll take in the stars. Come on then, Harry.”

Harry looks up at Zayn, still concerned, as Al passes him by and disappears down the corridor. He has unconsciously reached to twist his hair round and round his fingers into a tight knot at the nape of his neck, and it exposes the marks there, just down from his ear. Four neat dark ovals, like fingerprints on a police file.

When he drops his hand, the hair swings back to cover them up. Then he smiles a small apologetic smile and turns to follow Al.


	3. Poros

Zayn cannot believe the first thing Louis does on his afternoon off in Poros is to drag them around bars and back lanes until he’s identified a seller to replenish his private weed stash.

“More, Louis?” Zayn huffs at him when Niall’s back is turned, “You don’t think we’ve got enough on board as it is?”

“That’s business, this is pleasure.” Louis winks at him, before following a vest clad, heavily tattooed girl into a corner of the tatty English style pub they’ve in, leaving Zayn and Niall to pretend to themselves they’re not anxiously looking over at the transaction while they push the grey sausage patties and rubbery eggs around their plates in an unsatisfactory fulfilment of the sign outside - “Trad English Breakkie Served Here!”. 

When Louis comes back he grins devilishly, “Don’t give me that look, Zayn. We both know you’ll be smoking half of this.” 

Zayn stares at him, trying to silently convey that that _these_ drugs aren’t the issue. Louis has shrugged him off every time he’s tried to ask if he’s sorted things yet and although Zayn really really doesn’t want to get involved, he’s nervous about Louis managing to arrange this delivery by himself, given his skill deficit in the areas of planning and diplomacy.

“So!” Louis says cheerily, “My new friend over there recommended the best beach on the island, a few miles over - Lovers Bay. I reckon we should hire mopeds for the day and go for a spin.” 

“Well, sounds like just my kinda place!” Niall laughs.

“No, it’s not quite Niall, sorry,” Louis says, “But don't worry, we’ll drop you off at Wankers Bay on the way.” He nods his head towards the door, dropping some notes onto the table to cover the breakfast, and the boys follow him out, Zayn patting Niall’s shoulder sympathetically.

 

After a few hours on the beach, Zayn’s trailing the lads as they zip along the narrow road on their hired mopeds, the hot wind on his cheeks, and then on further, up over the island’s hillside, kicking up swirls of dust in their wake.

They stop every now and then, engines still running, to take in the views down back over the town, over the harbour where the Calista is gleaming white on the turquoise waters of the port. Zayn tells them he’s read about a temple to Poseidon at the summit of the hill and after a few false turns, they find it, rumbling their bikes over the crumbly pathway until the trees clear to reveal the site.

“Zayn...” Louis’ hands fly to his hips, and when he turns to look at Zayn, his eyes are narrowed dangerously. “Have you really just brought us to see this load of rocks?”

Zayn looks around at the flattened collection of bleached boulders scattered among the gently swaying olive trees. “Well, it’s ancient, Louis. What do you expect?”

He sets his bike aside, and wanders around for a while, before settling down on one of the dusty stones. He touches the gritty surface with his fingertips, tracing the faint grooves of ancient chisel marks. He turns back to Louis, “ Like, makes you think, doesn’t it?”

Louis readjusts his sunglasses on his nose. “Think? No, not particularly? They’re stones, Zayn, what’s a pile of old stones supposed to make me think about?”

Zayn looks around. He feels the scorch of the sun against his back, the trickle of sweat running along his temple. “Maybe, like, whether anything we do is going to be remembered thousands of years in the future?” Zayn says. “Or, like, what it took to build this? How much sacrifice is the necessary price of greatness?” 

“Probably not as much of an issue when you’ve got a bunch of slaves doing the sacrificing for you,” Louis answers, raising his eyebrows over the edges of his shades. He’s still straddling his moped as if he’s about to take off any second. 

But it’s getting Zayn thinking.

He’s never going to disabuse his family of their notion that he’s enjoying a glamorous life these day - swanning around in the sun on this big fancy boat, seeing the world, partying, hanging out with millionaires and beautiful people. He loves skyping home and seeing his little sister’s eyes widen when he tells her where in the world he is, or about the celebrity he spotted at the marina. He loved that day he told his Dad that he’d cover the girls back-to-school costs this year. He loves seeing his Mum wear the necklace he splurged on in Monaco.

But none of that had been his reason for leaving in the first place. He’d been watching everyone around him just falling into little boxes they’ll be locked in for life … getting crappy jobs or having kids too young or spending all their dole on weed and pills and scrabbling around the rest of the week for money to get by. The few of them who got Uni places were supposed to be the lucky ones, on their way to better things.

But that had felt like just another box to Zayn. His old neighbourhood or going to Uni or all of the UK really, it just felt so closed in - the people he knew, their tight intertwined existences, their flint-eyed watchfulness of each other. He sees those days in greys - concrete, low cloud, the pallor of winter skin. The muscles of his jaw start clenching involuntarily, whenever he thinks back on it all, that old claustrophobia swirling up around him like a cape.

He’d just always wanted something bigger for himself, something different, to be different.

And at first he felt that he’d found it - being able to look out over the glinting blue sea, up at the wide expanse of sky, squinting at a far-off horizon. He’d feel the gentle tilt of the boat over the waves, listen to the low thrum of the engines, bringing them on, always on, always someplace new. He’d run his tongue over his lips and taste the salt put there by the breeze, feel the sun scorch his skin, and it had all felt like escape.

But it didn’t last, of course not, not within the confines of this boat, this work.

He doesn’t tell anyone back home that most of his days are spent cleaning toilets and ironing other people’s clothes, or that he’s sometimes had to work 15 hour days for weeks on end, or that the millionaires barely acknowledge him and occasionally treat him like scum. They don’t need to know that the skin on his hands has gone scaly from contact with detergents, or that there was one night he was so exhausted that Niall found him slumped asleep on the closed toilet seat, mid-way through brushing his teeth. 

They all think he’s coming home soon, is the thing. 

It was only ever supposed to be a year, just for him to save up for his Uni costs, just for the maximum time he was permitted to defer his degree place. But now that there are only weeks left, not months, Zayn’s not sure he can imagine himself going back at all. Something cold clenches around his lungs every time he pictures it - walking through the arrivals gate in Manchester airport. Back to rainy days and dingy bars and student loans and hard lecture seats where he’ll slump low in terror of being called on to voice an opinion. 

Back to feeling he’s different, not quite fitting in anywhere despite the boxes people will try to push him into.

It’s funny though, because, even though he’s sure he’s not ready to go back, he can’t quite picture himself staying away either.

He just wants it, still, gut deep - something bigger, something all-enveloping. He wants a fucking greek temple of a life. But no one’s ever come close to being able to explain to him how he’s supposed to build one.

 

Niall stumbles back from where he’s taken a stroll through the remains. He stands between Louis and Zayn, surveying the site from under his cap, nodding seriously. Even though he’d slathered on sunblock before they set out, his skin is already a glowing pink and his lips are looking cracked. If he wasn’t in the middle of a sulk with Louis, Zayn would probably feel a bit guilty for dragging him up here.

“Lovely, yes, very nice,” Niall says, “well done, Zayn. Very interesting.”

Louis snorts and Zayn has give in and laugh too at how insincere Niall sounds, despite his efforts. 

“Well, I think,” Niall continues, “as a gesture of respect to the lads who built this, the poor, whipped, slave lads ..." He bows his head slightly, while Louis splutters another laugh, "And!" he whirls around, throwing his hands up to the sky, "and not to mention, paying tribute to the man himself, the great Poseidon, I reckon a few beers are in order about now.”

“Yes!” Louis exclaims, and kicks his moped into life, “great idea, Niall. You should speak up more often. Let’s go then.”

 

 

///

The bar they find back in the harbour has exactly the kind of vibe the lads always say they want for their place someday - away from the main tourist throngs, it’s open front catches the cooling breeze and it’s close enough to the water for Zayn to hear the waves gentle lapping. There’s a mix of locals and visitors enjoying some very chilled music, and everyone’s smiling and relaxed.

Soon after they got a table Louis’ phone went off and he rushed into a corner, turning his back to the room and huddling over the mouthpiece. Zayn’s hoping he’s finally talking with whoever he needs to contact to get the necessary arrangements underway, but his ribcage is tightening around his lungs at the thought of it. 

Zayn’s half-listening to Niall rambling on about some window-polishing tip he’s gleaned from his last skype-call with his grandmother - and he’s slumping back in his chair and feeling his eyelids get heavy when he spots a familiar looking figure, wandering along, a little distance away. 

Harry. He’s got his hair swept back with a pair of sunglasses, a camera in his hands and he's got a knapsack slung over one shoulder. He stands to one side and smiles as a very short, very round, little old greek lady, all clad in black, strolls towards him on the footpath. Two little girls - her grand-daughters probably - trot along beside her, holding each of her hands. Harry lifts his camera up, questioningly, and must get an OK, because he's taking their picture then, the girls giggling and twisting their faces into their grandmother's skirt when Harry pokes his tongue out at them from behind the camera. 

“Damp newspaper, though Zayn! Brings up a shine like you wouldn't believe. Would you have thought? And she’s right! Zayn... Zayn...” Niall nudges his elbow and then glances up to see what he’s looking at. “Oh, there’s Harry.”

Before Zayn can stop him, Niall’s on his feet and leaning out into the street, bellowing “Hey! Harry! Harry!”

Zayn watches Harry look up in confusion and then sees that killer smile spread over his face. Harry waves back at Niall, and saunters over, carefully tucking his camera into its case as he walks.

“Hey guys,” he says when he reaches them, leaning against the doorframe, “had a good day off, then?”

“Yeah. You should have a beer with us.” Niall says, he jumps up, “Here, I’ll get us all a round.”

“We’re back on in an hour,” Zayn feebly tries but Niall’s already at the bar, and gets the girl there laughing within 20 seconds of chatting to her. 

Zayn turns back to Harry, who’s still standing, smiling down at him. 

“Well,” Zayn says, pushing a chair towards him with his foot, “you should sit. If you’re staying.”

Harry’s smile dips slightly and Zayn curses himself. He really tries, but ever since he was a kid he’s been scolded for being surly and having an attitude, when the truth of it has always been that he’s just nervous and tongue-tied and things come out wrong. He almost lost his first stewarding job because of it, until Liam helped him out, trained him to an inch of his life.

“Is it OK?” Harry’s asking. “I mean, you guys probably just need a break from-”

“It’s OK, honest.” Zayn says, and takes off his shades so he can try this again. He smiles at Harry. “How’s your day been, then? Done some sightseeing?”

Louis’ suddenly flinging himself down into the only spare seat at the table. “Don’t let him give you any sightseeing tips. Zayn has the worst ideas. He only likes dust and the ground and broken down shit.”

Harry’s laughing as Zayn rolls his eyes. Niall arrives back with the beers then, and distracts everyone by announcing he’s going to marry the barmaid, and nothing’s getting in his way so they all better just accept it now. As he chats with Harry, Louis leans into Zayn and whispers, “Offloading in Hydra. Thursday. So, relax and stop worrying sweetie.”

He leans back, patting Zayn’s shoulder and the next few hours pass easily. They make Harry phone back to the boat with an unconvincing story about how he needs them all to stay ashore to help him with his souvenir shopping, and soon the evening is closing in, and they’re tucking into gyros and pita bread while the lights flicker on around the harbour.

“Patrice is going to be so pissed off with us,” Zayn mumbles, licking his fingers clean of chicken grease.

“Patrice needs to learn to chill.” Louis replies, “He gets too stressed and needs to learn to let go. We’re actually helping him. In the long run.”

“Or we can eat his dinner too,” Niall says, dipping some pitta in the bowl of tzakiki, “and then he’ll never know we betrayed him, and it’ll all be fine.”

Harry chuckles to himself, and Zayn almost swears his eyes linger over Zayn’s lips when he sucks some salt from his thumb, but then Louis is prodding him with his elbow, “What about you, aren’t you going to be in trouble for standing up your dinner date?”

Harry shakes his head, “Nah, Al won’t care. He might even like a night to himself in front of a movie or something.”

“Wearing the old man out then, are you?” Louis’ smirks, and Zayn glances nervously at Harry. All the crew are used to Louis’ sense of humour sharpening its bite with each drink, but whether paying guests will tolerate it is a question everyone is careful to ensure isn’t tested too often.

Harry’s smirking back at Louis, but Zayn can see the watchful defensiveness behind his eyes.

“It’d take a lot to wear Al out,” Harry answers mildly, still smiling, spearing a piece of tomato with his fork. “He’s in good shape. He looks after himself.”

Harry pauses and looks at Louis, his slow speech giving emphasis to each word, “He’s really strong, very energetic.” 

Louis laughs, returning Harry’s gaze brazenly.

Zayn shifts in his seat. Usually, when people are eyeballing each other like this, it’s a sign that things are heading for a fight or a fuck and Zayn’s certain he can’t handle either of those outcomes. He looks pleadingly at Niall who can usually be relied on to provide a soothing wisecrack. But right now, Niall’s fixed on the bar, grinning and twinkling his eyes at his dark-haired beauty there. 

“That’s it, then, is it?” Louis laughs, “We’ve been wondering all this time what it was that attracted you to your filthy rich, multi-millionaire boyfriend?”

Harry laughs hollowly, “Huh, good line. Caroline Aherne said it first though, didn’t she?”

Louis just shrugs. “Well, the oldies are the goodies - that’s right isn’t it Harry? Especially when the oldies are nice and generous.”

“Louis,” Zayn tries, quietly, “come on, man.”

Louis holds up his hands in a surrender gesture, “Hey, no offence meant. Harry, seriously, go for it mate. No judgement here.”

“Wait, do you guys think I’m some kind of whore, or something?”

That gets Niall’s attention and he shoots around in his chair, gaping at Harry. “Huh? What are you guys talking about?”

“Louis thinks I’m a whore.” Harry tells him evenly, his face showing no expression, but the flood of colour to his cheeks betrays his heightened emotions. “But I’m not actually.”

“Not a whore,” Louis says, grinning, “maybe something sugar sweet though? He been buying you lots of presents?”

“No,” Harry huffs, his eyes darkening.

Louis keeps laughing, and Zayn considers if a quick slap across the face might be worth risking, but Louis keeps talking, “You really don’t need to worry, Harry. Some of our favourite guests ever have been whores.”

“Sex workers,” Niall pipes up, “I think the correct term is sex workers,” and Zayn swivels to him, thinking … seriously? … that’s going to be your contribution to this conversation?

“Hey - remember, Shareen?” Niall continues, sipping on his beer, staring wistfully into the distance, “She was so nice. I still miss Shareen. My glutes miss Shareen.”

“She was a trained masseuse,” Zayn explains to Harry quickly, just in case he’s getting the wrong idea. 

“I’m not a sugar baby either,” Harry tells Louis. 

“Ignore Louis, Harry, he just likes stirring shit. You should stop stirring shit, Louis.” Niall says, and Zayn nods in agreement as vigorously as he can manage. He suddenly realises it’s pitch black outside. When did that happen? How did it get so late? 

Harry’s shaking his head to himself, a furrow in his forehead. He’s looking down but there’s a sudden shine apparent beneath his lowered eyelids and Zayn’s fists clench under the table. And oh fuck, if Louis has made him cry … 

“Yeah,” Louis’ studying Harry carefully, and he must see it too. He deflates a little, “I’m only winding you up. I’m sure it’s true love and all that.”

Zayn watches Harry relax slightly at Louis’ retreat. There's an awkward pause and Harry stays quiet, rubbing his thumb along the top of his glass, but then he shugs, “Well, I’m not saying that either.”

Louis snorts and suddenly Harry’s snickering along with him.

“No, like, we just get on well. We do. I like him. I dunno, I always seem to end up with people older than me. It's not a thing though. I just, I guess I like people who are confident in themselves, know how things work. And he really helped me out with some stuff that was going on recently. He’s been good to me. I like someone who knows what they’re doing, you know?”

Niall nods, claps Harry on the shoulder, standing, “I get it Harry. And that girl definitely knows what she’s doing. Excuse me, lads.” He saunters off to the bar, leaning against it on an elbow as the barmaid polishes a glass, smiling to herself, clearly aware of his presence but keeping him waiting, just because she can.

“Brawny and capable, got it.” Louis says, and Harry’s giggling into his glass again.

“Pity he’s married, I suppose. He’d be a catch.”

Zayn and Louis’s faces swipe over to look at Harry, who, despite his last sentence, is still looking amused.

He catches sight of their expressions and laughs again, “What? You think I didn’t know? Hey! It’s not like that. I told you. Al’s cool. Actually, they’re both cool about it. They have an arrangement, you know? They’re open about stuff like this. I think she’s got someone else too, so it’s all good.”

Zayn takes another deep draught at his beer. Right then. 

His phone suddenly flashes and Zayn sees there’s a text from Sven - just a long string of question marks. He exchanges a look with Louis - they’re really pushing it now. Liam will never let them out again. He texts back the bar address to Sven.

“Shit, that idiot’s going to get his head kicked in.” Louis gets up and hurries over to the bar, where a very bulky Greek guy is moving in and glaring dangerously as Niall, blissfully unaware, laughs with the barmaid.

“Um, so Zayn,” Harry is saying very quietly. Zayn turns to look and sees he’s chewing on his bottom lip, eyelashes lowered over his cheekbones. He leans down and rummages into his backpack at his feet.

“This is, like, nothing, but I just saw it and thought of you. I mean, it’s a bit shit, probably, but …I was in this little craft market and … I thought maybe … for your collages and stuff?”

He pushes a bundle wrapped in tissue paper over to Zayn, who feels a beat pass before he can reach to unwrap it. Inside, he finds a bound notebook of coarse handmade paper, and a box of velvet black charcoal pencils.

“They had all these hand-made things, and I know it’s probably not what you need or anything, but …”

He looks at Zayn, and then does a double-take, surprise overtaking his expression as he takes in the way Zayn’s locked onto his face.

“Sorry.” Harry whispers.

Which doesn’t make sense, but Zayn finally remembers how to speak.

“This is great, Harry. This is … so great. Thank you.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” relief melts Harry’s face into a smile, “good, then.”

Zayn is so taken aback he’s not quite sure what to say next. He looks around the bar while he’s gathering himself and sees the pretty barmaid still chatting to Niall, as Louis tries to distract the muscle-man with banter. She leans down against the bar on her forearms, angling her breasts towards Niall, which prompts Muscle-man to move up and tap Niall on the shoulder.

“Oh God, we’re not going to have to fight are we?” Harry asks, biting his lip as he leans back in his chair to watch. “I am useless at fisticuffs, I’m just telling you now.”

Zayn splutters into his beer, “Fisticuffs? Really? Did you grow up in the 1920s or something?”

Harry laughs. “It’s a perfectly legitimate word, Zayn! I dunno. Maybe I play too much scrabble with my Nan. But yeah, don’t do fights. I’m pretty good at avoiding a row. Someone told me last year it’s ‘cos I value being well-liked to the expense of having any depth of character or conviction.”

“Wow,” Zayn blinks at him, “that’s a really shitty thing to say to someone.”

Harry seems surprised that Zayn hadn’t laughed, and then two bright crimson circles spread over his cheeks.

Zayn feels a stab of guilt about making Harry feel bad, so he scrambles to bring the conversation on, “Well, good job avoiding a row with Louis there. He never backs down so you did well - defending Al’s honour and that.”

Harry runs his thumb over the top of his glass. He hesitates, before continuing in a low tone, “Yeah … I didn’t want Louis thinking … But the truth of it is, me and Al, we weren’t even together or anything before this trip. I liked him. I met him through my ... um ... a friend. At his golf club. But we were just friends. And ... lately ... he was nice to me about something that was going on and then he just sprung this yacht idea. It seemed like a perfect way to just chill and get my head together.”

Harry moves his hand and now he’s running his thumb over the bruise on his wrist. He doesn’t seem aware he’s doing it.

“And then, when we arrived, and somehow our bags ended up in the same room … I was like ‘Oh, ok.’ So, not that Louis was right ... I’m not saying it felt like I owed him or anything, but … I didn’t think he was into me that way ... but hey… Al ’s a good guy. And I just feel like, these days, I'm not going to say no to anything? Or anyone. I want everything that comes my way. D’you know that feeling? Like, last year, I let myself get lost and I was - I was … so … And now, I just … No one's going to tell me I can't have, like, everything. I decided I want _everything_ … I want everything to be different … I want …”

He drifts off and Zayn knows his own face has crumpled up in confusion. Harry’s eyelids flicker in uncertainty at first when he meets Zayn’s eyes, but then, he stares at him, almost pleadingly, like he’s begging him to understand.

Zayn tries to smile at him, but he’s not sure it’s convincing because Harry just shakes himself like a dog, “Wow, I’m rambling. I told you before that I say stupid stuff when I’m drunk, Zayn! You have to stop me. OK? Can I trust you with this task, please?”

He smiles up, looking all open and hopeful and Zayn’s lungs seem very full of air. He seems to have forgotten how to exhale.

“You can trust me, Harry,” he says, tightly, and he sees something flicker in Harry’s eyes, before they dip back down to stare at the wooden table between then. Then he looks up again and smiles.

 

Zayn jumps as two heavy hands suddenly land on his shoulders. He twists around and sees Sven there saying, “So boys, ready to go yet?”

 

Back in his bunk, later on, Zayn’s regretting that one last drink everyone had decided was necessary to celebrate Niall, Louis and the beefy Greek guy reaching some kind of accord over football. The object of their romantic rivalry looked bored as they flung their arms around each other and toasted Greece’s 2004 European Championship win, until Sven eventually grabbed Niall and Louis by their collars and frogmarched them out the door.

Zayn hears Niall toss around in his bunk above him and he’s about to ask him if he’s OK because it’s not like him not to conk out the second his head hits the pillow, when instead he hears him mutter, “Harry’s a good lad, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, after a pause he immediately regrets allowing to occur. 

“Just …” Niall starts, and then stops again.

“Just, what?” 

“Just don’t… Like … you two keep looking at at each other and, whatever Harry says about that Al guy, he’s not the type to be OK with - ”

“I’m not!” Zayn’s suddenly feeling very awake. “I’m not looking. Nothing’s going on.”

“Good. OK. Well … cool. Hey - I really liked that bar, Zayn. I think our place should be like that, all chill and friendly. Decent, local food.”

“Pretty barmaids…” Zayn adds to Niall’s hearty laughter. He’s not sure when it was exactly that Niall and Louis started including him in the future plans about this bar. He’s never exactly told them he’s up for it. He’s never exactly told his Mum to send the registration forms back to Uni either, but she’s still done it.

Niall shuffles around under his covers. “Well … night then.”

Zayn blinks into the dark for a while, and eventually he gives in and asks, “So, you think Harry was looking at me?”

“Zayn...” 

Zayn swallows, and stares at the underside of Niall’s bunk. He takes a breath. “I know,” he breathes. “I know.”

 

///

 

Time has a weird way of passing on the boat. The hours stack up on top of each other like cars in a motorway pile-up - breakfast finishes just in time for lunch, the towels dry just in time to be used again, the alarm sounds just after Zayn’s head hits the pillow.

But the days - they stretch out and merge into a line as endless and immeasurable as the far-off horizon. It’s impossible to remember the day of the week, how much longer each charter is going to last. And the nights are another universe entirely - empty and infinite.

It’s Zayn’s favourite time to be on the boat. When everyone else is asleep, and he’s alone on deck in the dark, and everything’s so still and quiet he’s almost certain he can hear the stars’ grinding gears as they wheel through the sky. He’s usually too exhausted to wake up earlier than necessary, but tonight, Niall’s snoring had developed a new vehemence, and instead of burying his head underneath his pillow like he usually would, Zayn just rolled out of his bunk, tugged on whatever clothing he could reach in the dark and tip-toed out of the cabin before he could second-guess himself.

He’s quietly drifting over the aft-deck, aiming for the steps to the rear platform, the inky sky lightening a little in the east like the fade of over-washed denim, when there’s a sudden clatter nearby that makes his heart leap, and then a deep voiced “Fuck! Ouch!” carries across the deck.

“Harry?” he calls quietly, moving slowly towards the dark shadow that’s crouched over near the bar counter, muttering curses.

“Yeah, fuck, ow, hi,” Harry hisses back at him.

“Everything OK there?” 

“Oh, yeah, all OK,” Harry calls back lightly, “all fine and dandy.”

Zayn glances regretfully towards the stern stairway and swallows. He doesn’t have a choice. His training has merged with his DNA now. “You need something?” he asks. “Can I help?”

“Um, well,” Harry limps out from behind the bar, holding onto the heavy steel ice-bucket they use to hold magnums of champagne on the choppiest days. “I was actually just checking to see if there might be some ice left over, but I didn’t find any, so I looked in this thing ‘cos you never know, but it fell on my foot… So now, yeah, need even more ice than before.”

Zayn watched him hobble closer, still holding tight to the champagne bucket.

“Why didn’t you just call up for some, Harry?” he asks gently, “one of us could have brought some to your room, saved you all this.” And Zayn’s about to continue speaking, make some kind of joke about how Harry’s not got the hang of this being a luxury guest lark, when the atmosphere between them suddenly crackles. 

At first Zayn doesn’t know what it is. He’s just overwhelmed with the certainty that something’s happened, something’s not right. Then Harry nears and he feels it again, more violently, right inside his own chest, heart racing, adrenalin fizzing along his veins, the dark twist in his stomach that might be fear or anger or desire or all three somehow wrapped around each other in a snaking circle.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone at this hour,” Harry’s tone is all measured, pleasant politeness. Zayn remembers Liam explaining how to identify the best crystal, flicking his fingernail against the edge of a glass, the sound of the bright ting that sang out. He feels an echo of that delicacy reverberating around them now.

“It’s no trouble,” Zayn responds automatically, “it’s what we’re here for. The ice is in the galley freezer now, I’ll go get you some.” He reaches for the ice-bucket. “Will I get you some water too?”

Harry is closer but it’s still too dark to see him properly. He sees his silhouette outlined against the violet sky, his hair loose and drifting a little across his face in the breeze.

“I just …” Harry stops and Zayn feels his heart thud, one of their hearts, or both, maybe. 

“I’m such a klutz, seriously,” Harry starts again, a new cheeriness in his voice that puts a prickle into Zayn’s spine, “got up for the loo, but tripped over and whacked my face into the nightstand. Was thinking I better put some ice on it - don’t want to ruin the holiday snaps with a shiner, do I?”

Zayn refrains from mentioning that Harry’s camera has firmly been pointed away from his face so far. He takes the ice-bucket from Harry’s hands. “You go sit down, Harry,” he tells him gently. “The first aid kit’s got one of those chemical ice-pack things, I’ll bring it over.”

Harry obediently turns around and walks across the deck and disappears down the steps to sit at the edge of the platform, lowering his feet into the water. He looks back up over his shoulder and sees Zayn still standing there, watching him carefully. 

“Bring us some drinks too, Zayn,” Harry calls up. Zayn can hear the smile in his voice, but it’s the first time Harry’s ever asked for something like that, just a command - no _would you mind_ , or _if it’s ok_. 

“Anything you like,” he adds, “I don’t care.”

Zayn nods and turns back to the bar.

“Not scotch!” he hears Harry call.

 

Once Zayn’s cracked the chemical-pack and shaken it up until it goes cold, he offers it to Harry, who sets down the glass of vodka and tonic he had been pressing against his cheek, and replaces it with the silver packet, his elbow propped on his knee. 

They're sitting side by side on the rear platform, their feet over the edge to let the waves lap over their skin. There’s a line of pale gold shimmering on the horizon and the light spreading across the sea is strange this dawn - a saffron hue that’s reminding Zayn of movie dream-sequences. But it’s now bright enough to see everything properly - and Zayn can now see the dark shadows circling underneath Harry’s eyes, the furrow between his eyebrows.

“You need to put that higher,” Zayn tells Harry, pointing at the packet that he’s pressing just underneath the crimson flare on his cheekbone. “Here,” he says, reaching, “can I?”

Harry’s eyelids flicker but he releases the packet into Zayn’s fingers. 

Zayn shuffles a little closer and brushes a few stray strands of hair back from Harry’s face, tucking them behind his ear. Then he gently places the ice-pack onto Harry’s cheek, covering the bruise fully now. He feels Harry’s eyelashes brush against his fingertips when he blinks, and the heat of his skin under his thumb where it rests, lightly, onto his jaw.

Harry’s eyes are fixed firmly on his toes underwater, tapping on the top of the steps that descend into the depths of the sea. Zayn reaches his free hand behind him for his drink, trying not to think about what Liam’s going to say if he discovers Zayn’s been drinking vodka before breakfast. Harry just swirls his glass around, and Zayn misses the clink of ice-cubes. Something to interrupt this silence. 

“So,” Zayn swallows, the alcohol burning along his throat, “Al didn’t wake up then? When you fell? When you got hurt?”

Harry stays quiet, then lifts his glass and swallows a gulp of his drink. When he eventually lifts his eyes to Zayn he's got a strange, sardonic, smile on his lips. 

“Al..." he starts, drawling out the word, "Al's been a little ... stressed out. He’s working so hard this trip. Me being here ... He needs ... to blow off steam. I like that I help him relax. And then he passes out. He's dead to the world once he drops off.”

Zayn’s fingertips are going numb but he doesn’t want to move. Everything feels too delicately balanced.

“Are you …” Zayn starts, but has to stop when he realises he doesn’t know what he wants to ask exactly.

“Are you OK?” he tries again. 

“Yeah,” Harry smiles, his voice light. “Of course.”

“No, but,” Zayn says, “if you weren’t. If you weren’t OK, you know you can … Like, any of us, we’d help, if you needed it.”

Harry’s eyes meet Zayn’s. The breeze has caught his hair again, strands blowing over his face, tickling the back of Zayn’s hand.

“Just,” Zayn wishes his voice hadn’t gone all shaky like this, but he’s started now, so he knows he’s got to keep going, “if you need to get away or anything, I could help? Get you a ticket home, if that’s what you need? Whatever you might need?”

Harry stares at him for a long time. “Why would I need a ticket home, Zayn?”

Zayn looks away, at the water lapping at Harry’s shins.

“Why? Zayn?” Harry says again, “Do you think Al punched me or something?”

When Zayn looks up, Harry’s lips are twisted into that strange smile again, no amusement in his eyes. “Do you think he’s abusing me?”

Zayn feels heat rush to his cheeks. 

“Did you really just fall over?” he asks, refusing to look away.

Harry just laughs lightly. “You know, of the two of us, me and Al,” he says eventually, “it really isn’t me you should be worrying about.”

Then he blinks and looks out over the sea. His face changes then, his expression shifting into something softer, more real. “Wow, beautiful sunrise this morning. So glad I'm up to see it.”

Zayn looks over in the direction Harry’s smiling and sees the neon colours now broiling around the cresting sun. Fluorescent pinks and oranges flame across the sky. The sea is glimmering with a golden haze. 

It might be the most beautiful thing Zayn’s ever seen. One of them.

“Everything’s OK,” he hears Harry say beside him, “Al isn't abusing me, I promise. He looks after me. I guess I'm a bit stressed too sometimes, but I’m OK. Really.”

Zayn just breaths it in. He feels the sunlight steadying him as he takes in the words. 

He turns to Harry and watches as Harry moves to look back at him, blinking slowly, like a cat. Then he smiles. Properly. A new smile. Generous and unfiltered.

“Thank you Zayn,” he says, after a while, looking back towards the sunrise, “You know. For sitting with me. For … asking.”

Zayn strokes his thumb along Harry’s jawline, underneath the ice-pack. “It’s OK, Harry,” he tells him, and he swallows then, hard, because his voice had come out rough and breathless. He clears his throat and tries again, “I’m glad I got to see the sunrise too.”

They’re sitting close, side by side, darting smiles at each other in that warm golden light. And after a few moments Zayn realises neither of them are looking at the sunrise anymore, but he’s thinking they don’t need to, because they can see it reflected in each other’s eyes.

Suddenly Harry’s eyelashes drop and he huffs out a weak laugh. “So, hate to mention it, but it’s possible I’m getting frostbite in my face now.”

“Oh!” Zayn starts, and drops his hand to pull away the ice-pack, realising the cold has triggered a dull ache in his fingertips too. “Shit. Sorry. I should probably have read the instructions.”

Harry presses the back of one hand lightly into his cheek, then drops it again. “Well,” he shrugs, “feeling no pain, so that’s a plus.”

Zayn moves his hand to cup Harry’s cold face and he inhales sharply at the sensation of icy skin against his palm . His fingertips bury into Harry’s hairline and this touch has become a patty-cake game of hot on cold and cold on hot. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s leaned forward and his lips are resting against Harry’s cold cheek. He lingers there, pressing a kiss, open and damp, into Harry’s marble skin. 

Harry pulls back, hesitantly, slowly, like he’s not sure if he should. He’s dropped his head and Zayn moves back too, sits up straight, places his hands onto the floor either side of his hips.

“Uh, sorry,” he breathes, and he’s blinking blankly at the water in front of them. It’s slowly sinking into his consciousness … what he’s just done. He just kissed a guest. On the cheek only … but … 

Harry reaches his hand up again against his face, like he’s checking something.

 

“Well helloo!” 

Zayn flinches at the voice carrying over from somewhere above them.

He and Harry both jump slightly, then whirl around and finally see where Louis’ waving at them from the upper deck. 

“Good morning fellas!” he calls down. “You’re both up bright and early.”

Harry stands. He squints up at Louis, hand shielding his eyes, even though the sun’s behind him.

“Morning Lou,” he calls up, “actually … haven’t been to bed yet, me. Better head off, get a couple of hours.”

He drops his hand to Zayn’s shoulder and squeezes, just once. And then he’s gone.

After a few minutes, when he’s sure he’s alone, Zayn lets himself sink back onto the platform flat of his back. His feet, dipped into the water get heavier and heavier, and he just lets them slowly drag him further down, down, down, the sea's cold fingers creeping up his torso, until he’s completely submerged.

When he surfaces, Louis’ face is there hanging over him, grinning broadly.

Zayn blinks the water out of his eyes and exhales slowly, gripping tight onto the platform. 

This, he realises, feels huge.

“Louis,” he admits, “I am so fucked.”

Louis just put his hand over Zayn’s face and pushes him back down beneath the salty waves. Zayn doesn’t even try to resist.

  
  
  


///

  
  
  


The next couple of days were strangely windless and now the late afternoon sun’s beating onto the top deck of the boat with the fervency of a hell-fire preacher. Harry’s just wandered up from taking dip in the sea and now that the boat’s motoring onwards again, he’s lying on his front on a bench, propped up on his elbows. Zayn’s outside for the first time all day, in the corner, rolling towels and putting them into the basket, and trying to stop himself watching the rivulets of water running along the length of Harry’s back, trickling along the indentations of his spine as he flicks listlessly through the pages of a magazine.

He kicks his feet lazily and Zayn’s temporarily mesmerized by the curve of his calf muscle, the delicacy of the back of his knee and that narrow part of his heel. Then Harry sticks his tongue out again to lick at the ice-pop he’s holding and Zayn’s attention is now firmly back on that mouth, the fullness of his lips, the way they stretch when he puts the pop between them and sucks it in deep.

“Oh poor baby,” Daiyu murmurs, patting Zayn’s shoulder as she shifts around him behind him to collect the used towels, “isn’t there anywhere else you can be? Staring at him isn’t going to help. I don't think the Captain's going to be happy about having a creepy stalker on the crew.” 

“I’m just fixing the towels.” Zayn huffs darkly. “You had them all uneven.”

“Well, if Harry’s upset about that, maybe you better go over there and kiss him again.”

That’s the thing about the boat. There are no secrets. 

Or, maybe that’s just the thing about Louis.

Either way, Zayn’s faux-pas of two nights ago is now general knowledge among the crew and people are either being especially kind (Sven, Niall) or collapsing into hysterical laughter (Louis, Patrice) when they see him.

“He was a total fucking mess last night,” Daiyu mutters then and Zayn swirls around, eyebrows raised questioningly.

For a moment he thinks she’s just going to leave it at that, just to be annoying, but the delights of a good gossip about their guests is irresistible, even to Daiyu.

“Yeah,” she leans in to whisper “Like, barely functioning. We’re talking wheres-the-stomach-pump level here.”

She nods sideways towards the staircase and he follows her quietly down to the next deck. 

“So,” she starts, “remember they were all about going ashore to meet Al’s business friends again?”

Zayn nods.

“Well, Al arrives back after a couple of hours, on his own, said to Sven he had to make some calls, and that Harry had found someplace he liked the music, but then it’s a few hours later and no sign of Harry and Al is pacing the decks. He eventually sends Liam out to look for him. It’s another hour before he arrives back, practically dragging Harry along, and Harry’s so out of it Al won’t let Liam bring him downstairs. Dumps him onto a lounger, throws a few towels on him. Said if Harry’s going to puke, it’s better it happens outside.”

Daiyu wrinkles her nose up, as she giggles in delight. “Like, about time the deckies got some of the nasty shit to deal with, right?”

She glances at Zayn and visibly bristles at his expression, “Right well anyway. Liam sat up with him for ages. You know I was on early this morning? Well Liam was still there, and when I asked about it, he just said that he’d found Harry in a Club with this bunch of super creepy guys - like, they were all taking pictures of him on their laps and feeling him up and stuff. Liam said he didn’t know where he was. He just kept smiling at them and letting them pass him around. Liam wasn’t sure what they’d given him. He wasn’t just drunk, whatever it was? Liam was scared for him.”

Zayn can barely breath. He just stares hard at Daiyu, listening to the pounding of blood rushing through his veins. 

“I know, right?” she says, watching his face carefully, “And Al locked his cabin door, so even when Harry did come round, Liam had to make up the bed in a different cabin for him. Total catch, that Al. Actually, maybe you should make your move Zayn, seriously. I think even you’d be an improvement.” Daiyu giggles as she walks off.

 

///

Zayn’s so angry the rest of the day he keeps taking it out on the yacht, aiming punches into anything that isn’t going to break, scouring extra hard, kicking marks into the walls he has to go back and scrub off with plastic bristles that just won’t score into the paint no matter how hard he tries to make them.

Because he hates this goddamn boat and the people who hire it. He hates it. He hates it with an electric energy that’s firing furiously along his veins, flashing flinty sparks of bright pain against the inside of his skull. He’s heading for a migraine and he should just go to his bunk and lie in the quiet, but instead he’s prowling around in the dark looking for Liam, because he’s going to quit and he has to find Liam to tell him before anyone finds out and tries talks him down.

He’s just done. Done with pandering to overprivileged little shits and their inflated egos, dickheads with the ethics of a pack of gibbons, done with smiling back while being insulted, done with polishing things no one ever sees and serving up food that’s left uneaten. Done with worrying about Louis and when his mistake is going to catch up on all of them. Done with watching and saying nothing, with minding his own business, with being invisible.

 

He finally reaches the upper salon, where Al’s been sequestered the whole trip so far. No one’s been allowed in to tidy in there except for Liam so he peeps in, looking around at the ordered stack of files on the desk, the computer screen showing a trailing line of stock prices. 

“Heya Zayn.” 

He jumps to see Harry’s smiling at him from an armchair in the corner. A scrabble set is out on the low table in front of him. It’s his usual, endearingly wide grin, all dimples and brightness but it breaks almost instantly and he says, “Oh shit, what’s up with you, grumpy cat?”

Zayn hates his face. He looks at the ground and huffs, “Was looking for Liam.”

“Is he in trouble?” Harry asks, but the grin is back, “Are we all in trouble?”

It takes a moment for Zayn to react. He’s not sure but … he’d just been expecting … not this. Not Harry looking all relaxed and amused. 

Zayn edges around the doorway and leans his shoulder into the frame. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again when nothing comes.

Harry looks at him carefully and when Zayn stays silent, he smiles to himself. “Well, somebody here could do with practicing how to use their words, and hey … wow … look at this … I have just the thing!” 

He swivels the scrabble board around and beams at Zayn, waggling his eyebrows.

Zayn shakes his head, chews at his bottom lip. He’s got to find Liam, doesn’t he? Because he can’t stay in this place any more, he just can’t.

“Nope.” Harry says, counting out the letter tiles, “Not taking no for an answer. You’ll love it, I swear. Playing scrabble with me is one of the great joys of life. You’re missing out if you don’t take this chance, Zayn. I’m telling you. Your regret will haunt you to your grave.”

Zayn starts to protest and then stops when Harry’s nonsense registers. Something cracks in his chest and he’s surprised by the short laugh he suddenly snorts out.

He shuffles forward and sinks to sits cross-legged on the floor, “All right then,” he grumbles, “lets do this.”

///

The board’s nearly full and Zayn has learned all Harry’s tells. The way his eyelids flicker when he gets the letter he’s hoping for, the bite on his lip when Zayn’s taken the spot on the board he was aiming for.

They haven’t even spoken much, as they played, kept focused on their respective strategies, breaking only once when Zayn went to get them mugs of hot tea.

Harry’s got a glint in his eye now and looking way too pleased with himself as he starts to place out the letters for a new word - j … u … k … skips the already present e to continue on with … b … o. He pauses dramatically before placing the x on the triple letter score, then leans back raising his fists in the air, beaming.

“Oh yes!” he shouts, “this moment is the pinnacle of my scrabble career! Add ‘er up Zayn, then take a picture so I can send it to my mum. She’ll be so proud.”

Zayn is rolling his eyes, when he feels a presence behind him. He looks over his shoulder and is scrambling to his feet automatically when he sees Al there, looking down at them with his hands on his hips.

“Jukebox, Al,” Harry grins up at him, “it’s finally happened.”

Al nods, applauds gently. He gives Zayn an appraising look, like he’s calculating something.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” Zayn asks. And then his face flushes. He’s like an automaton he realises, now. He just clicks into servitude without even thinking about it, and he doesn’t even know when this happened.

“No, no, don’t let me disturb you,” Al says mildly. He comes over and looks at Zayn’s remaining letters, shuffling them around with his thick fingers. “Thought you’d be tired though, Harry. After your adventurous night. Don’t you need to catch up on some sleep?”

Harry’s suddenly glowering. He shrugs. “Slept most of the day. So… no? I’m fine.”

Al shoots a quick look at him and then goes back to messing with Zayn’s scrabble letters. “Who’s turn is it here?” he asks and Zayn swallows hard. He’s standing in his socks, which is pretty much a sackable offence, but he’d kicked off his deck shoes to get more comfortable on the floor half an hour ago.

“Zayn’s,” Harry says, “but it’s a hopeless cause, really.”

Al leans forward and takes an “e” and “s” from Zayn’s letters and slides them onto the end of jukebox, right onto a triple word score space. Zayn’s tally has just shot ahead of Harry’s by 150 points.

Harry freezes. “That’s not… hey …” He stops and frowns sulkily.

Al guffaws and claps Zayn hard on the shoulder, “You’re welcome,” he tells him and turns to leave. “Goodnight then boys.”

Zayn and Harry are quiet for a while after he leaves, the salon feels weirdly smaller and empty. Zayn sits into the armchair across from Harry. It has seemed too far away earlier in the night, but … getting back on the floor doesn’t seem an option now. He starts to pull his shoes back on.

“Al really likes to win,” Harry says, quietly.

“Wonder what that’s like?” Zayn says, biting on his thumb.

“I know, right?” 

And then they’re just grinning at each other, big stupid grins that, to anyone looking, might seem like a celebration of their mediocrity. 

“Guess he’s right. I should sleep,” Harry says, eventually. “Sorta had a wild one, last night.”

Zayn nods, but then he finds himself saying, “We’ve got letters left. Thought you had to play until all the letters are gone.”

“Oh, so now Al’s put you ahead, you’re suddenly interested. Right.” Harry smiles at him.

“I was just about to do the same thing anyway, you know.”

“Oh you were were you? Well, it may be winning, but there’s no elegance in that kind of thing, Zayn.”

“Don’t care, babe. It’s all about the score, at the end of the day.”

“ … babe …” Harry snickers. “Whatever happened to sir?”

Zayn smirks back, “If I’m ahead, shouldn’t you be calling _me_ sir?”

“Well, if that’s what floats your boat,” Harry says, his eyes glinting cheekily, and then he arches back in the chair, reaching back over his head and gripping tight onto the headrest, writhing, panting - “Oh sir. You beat me bad, sir. I guess I'm just a bad boy. Teach me to be better, sir.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, feeling himself blush deeply.

When he looks back he sees, to his surprise, that Harry’s blushing too. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Habit I guess.” And he shoots a grin at Zayn that’s half shamefaced, half thrilled with himself.

Zayn blinks, shocked, but then shakes his head, gently, “Um, OK?” he says slowly.

“You into that stuff?” Harry asks casually.

Zayn swallows hard. “Eh, I dunno really. Like, I suppose it’s cool but … .”

“So what do you like, then?” Harry’s casually tidying away the scrabble game tiles.

Zayn frowns down at his hands clenching in his lap. “Like? How do you mean?” 

“Sex, Zayn.” Harry looks at him. “Just wondering.” He folds up the scrabble board. “Sorry. Bad at boundaries - remember? You don’t have to tell me.”

Zayn glances behind him at the doorway. This is a conversation he should probably not be having at 11.30 pm, alone with a guest, while the sea breeze shimmers over their faces through the open windows.

“I dunno, I mean … it’s different with each person,” Zayn knows his voice is quiet, but, now that’s Harry’s asked, he’s thinking … faces appearing in his mind, parted lips, darkened rooms, the taste of someone else on his tongue, the slide of skin against skin. What does he like? He’s trying to figure out if there’s a theme there, in his best memories.

“I guess I just like it when it feels like something … like something kinda deeper. Like, properly sharing the experience with someone, you know? Even if it’s just like, that night or whatever. Just sometimes it can feel really like you’re connecting with the person, you’re really just there, with them, that’s an amazing feeling.”

He looks up to see Harry wrinkling up his nose. “Really?” 

Zayn laughs aloud. “Sheesh, Harry - its not that weird.”

“No, no, I know. It just sounds a bit …” he makes a face again, “ _romancey_.”

Zayn looks down at his hands again, his cheeks still hot, trying to think of a response to that. He isn’t sure, but … connection … isn’t that what sex supposed to be all about, at it’s best? The whole point of it? 

“No, I mean,” Harry speaks again in his deep drawl, “I guess I get it. Like… you mean when it’s intense right? When you’re overwhelmed and it’s too much and someone else gets to take you over for a while? And you can't even think? When everything's boiled down to just the heat of it, just the sensations and the taste of it, just the next breath ...”

Zayn frowns at the table. He’s not sure how to answer, and his blood is galloping under his skin, making him too hot to think about this. He wants to go now, too. If only he could trust his legs' ability to hold him up right now though.

They’re both quiet for a while, and Zayn listens to the clip of the scrabble tiles against each other as Harry slots them away, one by one, into their box. Eventually, he hears Harry say quietly, “I wasn’t like this, before ...”

And Zayn straightens to seek Harry’s face, because what does that mean? But Harry is frowning down into the scrabble box like it’s done something terrible and Zayn’s not sure if he should wait or ask or … It’s about what happened last night, probably, isn’t it? And Harry hasn’t seemed like he wants to acknowledge that happened, not even to Al, so …

Harry raises his eyebrows and laughs, rolling his eyes at Zayn like they’re in on some joke and he stretches a bit, a pantomime yawn, and says, “Guess we should call it a night.” 

 

They’re walking down the corridor together, just about to get to the corner Harry will take to get to his master cabin, while Zayn will continue along, taking the steps down into the bowels of the boat to his bunk, when Harry whirls around and stops in front of Zayn. 

Zayn takes in a long, slow breath as he stands there, staring at him.

Harry reaches for Zayn’s face, and Zayn’s heart convulses into a jelly-wobble as Harry’s wide palms press into both of his cheeks.

But he just keeps pressing, massaging the heels of his hands into Zayn’s cheeks until he feels his lips pushed into a pout and he’s fishmouthing at the air.

“Night, night, Zayn,” Harry says, moving Zayn’s head up and down with each word.

“Heurreh!” Zayn complains, but Harry just giggles, and drawls in an American accent, “Scrabble sure turned our frowns upside down, now didn’t it, Zaynie-boy?! Told ya.”

Then he releases Zayn and pats his right cheek once, grins again and disappears, leaving Zayn numb-faced and stunned. He just stands there for a full minute, staring down the empty corridor, before unsteadily turning and making his way to his cabin.

 

It’s empty, thankfully, when he gets there. Niall must be doing the night-watch.

Thankfully … because Zayn’s shoving his shorts down and gripping his hard dick before he even knows what he’s doing. He slumps his back into the door he’s only just managed to shut and starts wanking himself furiously, taking a second to wet his palm with his tongue before reaching down again and tugging, twisting his hand around the head, feeling the wetness there that started to leak almost straight away. He’s gasping as he comes, shuddering, after a disgracefully short time.

He slinks down to the floor, breathless and flushed. 

He looks down at himself, dazed - his shorts tangled around his ankles, the stain spreading over the hem of his shirt, his dick slowly going limp against the dark hair of his groin, wet now with the mess he’s made over himself. He’s flooded with shame. 

_What was that?_

He crawls over to his bunk and wipes himself clean with some tissues, refusing to think any more. He wishes he had work to do, his head is swimming too much and he needs something to focus on, something that isn’t Harry.

Work.

Zayn remembers that he never found Liam, that he’s still employed on the Calista. He sighs into his pillow and wraps his arms over his head. He won’t get his completion bonus if he leaves now, he thinks. Or his share of the tips for this charter. 

He rolls over so he’s facing his hodgepodge of images on the wall. Saafa wants to do dance classes, he remembers. His tip could cover that ... for a couple of years.

His eyelids blink heavier, slowing. 

And he needs to make sure Louis gets rid of the drugs he’s holding and somehow convince him never to do something like that again.

He should probably just stick it out. Just to the end of this charter.

Then he’ll go.

Then he’ll tell them.

His last thought though, before he falls asleep is Harry. And how he’s never been so confused by another human being in his life.


	4. Kyparisi

The Carlisle is impressive when it draws near, gleaming white and huge as an iceberg. The two boats are powering over the waves to a particularly beautiful and little-known cove near Kyparisi, which Nigel has assured Al will suitably impress the Huxleys - the business acquaintances they’ll be hosting next.

Al had delivered a rousing speech earlier, calling on them all to deliver their best ever charm offensive because this is the deal he's been chasing for 18 months. It had all been very stirring and then Harry trotted around, beaming, with a tray of cocktails he'd invented while Al had been talking, and now the crew are all standing, elbow to elbow at the railing on the mid-deck to drink them - as would only be polite, after all the trouble Harry went to - watching their sister boat plough a furrow into the blue. 

Harry is slurping his drink through a straw beside Zayn when the chatter of the crew fades away for a few moments. He turns suddenly to Al and says loudly, “Hey Al, isn't their boat much bigger than ours?”

Everyone freezes for a second. It's possible there is a millionaire out there somewhere who doesn't view the size of their yacht as a means of settling the question of their status on the planet, but if so, Zayn hasn't met one yet. Crews tend to be quietly sensitive on the issue. 

Harry guffaws though, seems delighted with the mute reaction happening around him. He flings an arm loosely over Al’s shoulders, and smacks a loud, sloppy kiss onto his cheek. “Oh, don’t worry Al, the main thing is that you’ve got a much bigger …” 

Al turns to look at him.

“… heart.” Harry finishes, his dimples deepening as laughter escapes everyone and they titter into their glasses.

Zayn realises then that it’s the first time he’s seen them touch like that.

It’s nice. He tells himself. The way Harry curls into Al’s broad shoulder, grinning cheekily up into his face. It’s full of affection and flirtiness and ease, and Zayn should be happy about it. 

He sees the way Al smiles back at Harry, reaching around his waist to pull him in closer, then stroking back the strands of hair that have escaped from his bun and are blowing around in the furious breeze.

That’s good, Zayn tells himself, looking back out over the sea. That they’re nice to each other. Because that’s all he’s been worrying about really, since Harry seems like a very nice person. He deserves someone to be nice to him too.

“You going to have sobered up by this evening, then?” Zayn hears Al mutter at Harry. 

“Uh hmm,” Harry nods, sucking on the straw so hard his cheeks hollow.

“I’m serious, Harry. This is important. Don’t embarrass me. Behave yourself, OK?”

“Al,” Harry huffs into his glass, “don’t talk to me like I’m one of your kids. It’s icky.”

Al pulls away then, resting his hands on the railing, shaking his head and laughing lightly.

Zayn sees the glance Harry casts in his direction, like he wanted to check if Zayn had seen. Then Zayn’s back chewing on his own tongue, frowning at the sunlight and hoping he’ll soon be allowed to get back to work.

 

 

It turns out the Huxleys are a relaxed, old-money couple, who clearly love being at sea, are weathered and bronzed by it, and gush enthusiasm from the moment the tender brings them aboard the Calista for dinner.

They’ve brought along Mrs Huxley’s mother, a tiny, sparkly little woman in her eighties, their recently divorced daughter - who is a little withdrawn until Daiyu compliments her shoes, and their almost-teenage grandaughter, soft and quiet and clearly devoted to her great-grandmother, curling beside her and smiling bashfully at anyone who pays her the slightest attention.

 

The guests have finished the dinner that showed off every one of Patrice’s Michelin-level skills, and now everyone’s sitting about, lingering over the petit fours and coffee. Zayn tries to keep busy behind the bar, but there’s only seven of them, and no one is drinking all that much, so he finds his attention drifting to where Niall is sitting on a sofa with Georgette, the grand-daughter, teaching her some simple guitar chords. She has a nice voice, sings softly along with Niall, and Zayn feels a tug right through his spine to go and sit with them and sing too, help her with her breathing so she’ll get those high notes with more accuracy.

Mrs Huxley Snr has taken herself off to the card table where’s she’s drinking sherry. Harry sat with her a while before she pointedly announced that solitaire was her absolute favourite card game and she so rarely got the opportunity to play it any more. 

Zayn grins to himself, and decides he’s going to give as few fucks as she does when he gets to her age.

Harry comes sauntering over, slumping heavily on his elbows, sighing slightly and leans over the bar towards Zayn, who finds himself stretching towards Harry automatically.

“Bit bored, Zayn,” Harry whispers to him, then leans down to prop his cheek in his hand, pouting his lips. The bruise on his face is barely visible any more, just a slight darkening that seems to just highlight his cheekbone. 

He had been introduced as a “family friend” to the group, Zayn overheard, which raised no eyebrows. And over dinner, he watched Harry retreat into the background, offering just enough conversation to be polite, but not enough to make himself particularly memorable.

Behind him now, Mr Huxley and Al are engaged in some jovial sparring about having stolen a favoured broker from one another, while the ladies are sitting aside discussing the merits of various event managers they’ve engaged for their charity balls.

Zayn glances at them to check no ones looking before making a sympathetic face back at Harry. “You want to help me polish some more glasses?” he suggests. “I’ve only done these three times over already?”

Harry snickers and shakes his head. Then he reaches over and grabs three lemons from the basket there and starts to juggle them, in a wildly frenzied manner. When he inevitably lets one smash into the bottles on the bar, they try to smother their giggles together and work to set everything upright again without making any more noise, which seems suddenly so hilarious that Zayn isn’t sure he isn’t going to asphyxiate while he attempts to keep his laughter inaudible. 

“Oh, Harry’s in London University, is he?” Mrs Huxley’s voice carries over from the dining table, “Oh, Harry dear, you might know my nephew then, Charles Smith-Preston-Waverly?”

Harry bites down on his smile when Zayn turns away hurriedly to hide his snicker at the triple-barreled surname.

He drifts back over to the table, “No, I’m sorry Frankie, I don’t think I’ve come across him. What’s he studying?”

“Art history I believe,” sniffs Mr Huxley, “He’s quite a useless boy, all told.”

Harry laughs. “Oh, well, I’m doing Law. We’re separate tribes, really.” 

“Oh, wasn’t there that scandal in the Law Faculty this year?” Mrs Huxley says then, frowning to herself, “Wasn’t it in the papers? Oh yes, Bertie, do you remember? Something about a Don topping themselves over an affair with a student, something like that?”

Harry’s got his back to Zayn, but he can see the way he stiffens suddenly, the way his fists clench.

A beat of silence strikes through the room, sharp and bright as lightening.

“Oh dear, have I been insensitive?” she glances from Harry to Al, who is swallowing back his scotch with a grim expression.

“Not at all, Frankie,” Al tells her lightly, a glinting smile suddenly appearing on his face, “you know the rags print tripe these days, anything to rescue their circulation stats. All a load of bollocks, that story, if you’ll forgive me. But I think Harry was quite fond of the Don in question, bit of a mentor figure. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh sweetie,” Mrs Huxley reaches out to grip his hand and squeeze his fingers, “I’m terribly sorry. How awful for you.”

Harry wrangles his hand free and tugs at his hair, placing his behind his ears. “It’s fine. It’s …” his voice is a rasp, and when he turns slightly, Zayn sees the blanched tone to his skin. He takes a tremulous breath and Zayn realises his own heart is pounding. He looks down and sees he’s twisted the bar-towel tightly around his own fist.

He’s untangling it, letting the circulation pour back into his fingers when he hears Harry speak again, his voice steadier this time. “Thank you, but it’s fine now. It was a shock. For everyone. But we all got on with everything. Just one of those things, I suppose.”

Zayn glances up and sees Al nodding approvingly over his glass at Harry.

“That’s the ticket,” Mr Huxley says, “Getting on with it. Too much wallowing being encouraged these days, in my view. Navel gazing never did a sot for anyone.”

“Exactly!” exclaims Al.

“You must be expecting your results soon then, Harry, are you?” Mrs Huxley asks gently, clearly trying to guide the conversation into less charged topics.

Harry’s gripping the back of an empty chair now, so tightly his knuckles have turned an icy white. “Yes, they’ve come out already. I passed everything, so ...”

“Top of his class, this one!” Al exclaims. “Heading places, I’ve no doubt! Going to get him started with McLaren Rigby, I think. There’ll be no stopping him.”

“Oh, you clever clogs!” Mrs Huxley purrs, reaching for Harry’s hand again, “well done you. Your parents must be so proud.”

Zayn watches the slump in Harry’s shoulders then and wants to run across the room and grab him away from these people. But Al is suddenly calling for champagne, announcing that Harry’s results warrant more than one celebration, and then Mr Huxley commences a speech about the effectiveness of grit above academic performance, which results in barbed comments from his wife along the lines of “well, you would say that, wouldn’t you, dear?”

They’re all so distracted when Zayn brings over the tray of champagne flutes that he figures it’s OK to reach for Harry. He lets his hand rest lightly, just for a second, on the back of Harry’s shoulder, where it won’t be seen. 

He thinks he feels him lean into the touch. But it was all so brief, he can’t be sure. And he has to go back to his place behind the bar, back to where he belongs.

Niall comes over to the table then, hesitantly, “Excuse me folks, but I think someone’s had enough of my company today,” he nods over to the sofa where Georgette has curled up in sleep.

“Oh the darling,” Mrs Huxley says, pressing her fingers over her mouth and smiling fondly.

From the corner, Mrs Huxley Snr then calls out, “To be perfectly frank, I’ve had enough of all of your company. Do you think we could be dropped back? I’m rather overdue my bedtime.”

Everyone laughs and soon Zayn’s gently lifting a still sleepy Georgette into the tender, while Harry holds Mrs Huxley Snr’s hand and guides her down. The others decided to stay a while longer when Liam brought out the port and cheeses, and Al and Mr Huxley snipped the ends from the proffered cigars.

Louis looks up from behind the wheel at Zayn and Harry standing silently beside each other on the swim platform. A flicker of confusion crosses his brow and he raises a questioning eyebrow at Zayn, who in turn, raises both eyebrows back at him in an appeal for help that he can't articulate out loud.

Louis seems to get it though, saying, “Come for the spin, you two,” and Zayn feels his heart sink at the way Harry just obeys, devoid of expression, clambering into the small boat and sitting quietly into a vacant seat.

///

Harry only looks up when they’re mid way back on the return journey, when Louis kills the engine, and quiet descends, the cadence of lapping waves the only sound. The breeze is cool, raising goosebumps on their skin.

Louis opens the little hidden locker at the base of the wheel seat, and pulls out his stash. Zayn’s relieved - for a second he’d looked up anxiously over the water, half-expecting to see a speedboat bouncing over the waves with someone - police or smugglers - coming for Louis. He’d had this vision of Harry throwing himself in front of the guns. It seemed to fit the mood he’s descended into ever since dinner.

Only another couple of days. Then hopefully Zayn’ll be able to unravel this knot that’s coiled up in his stomach.

“I think we might as well chance this tonight, when everyone’s so occupied with other matters,” Louis says, grinning devilishly. 

They all settle on the floor of the boat, pulling down the rugs over their shoulders.

“Nigel’s pretty strict about this kind of thing, but I feel that the tender is my gal, you know,” Louis says, lighting a bowl and hissing his exhale. “Nigel shall have no dominion over me and Mary J …”

He looks up when he’s met with silence and frowns at Zayn, questioningly. 

He stretches over Zayn when he shrugs at him, and extends the pipe to him. “Hey, you want some?”

Harry takes a couple of short puffs and immediately collapses into coughing, handing it back to Zayn. “Ugh, horrible” he says, “This just sets off my asthma.”

He looks up, surprised, when Louis starts laughing at him, “Why are you smoking it then, you berk?”

Zayn takes a long pull and exhales upwards, sees the stars twinkling like nobody’s business. The weed works quickly. He feels his muscles go buttery soft and he slumps backwards until he’s flat on his back, the boat rocking him serenely, like a lullaby.

“That’s our one,” he says, pointing towards Ursa Major, “the Great Bear, poor Calisto.”

“Those stars?" Harry asks, slumping back against the side of the boat close to him, "They're ours?"

"Yeah," Zayn murmurs to him, "our boat's named after that constellation, Calisto."

"But, why _poor_ Calisto?” Harry asks. 

Louis groans impatiently when Zayn starts speaking but he ignores him and tells Harry the story.

“Well, Zeus disguised himself and tricked Calisto into sleeping with him, and then when she ended up pregnant and Zeus’ wife, Juno, found out, she turned Calisto into a bear so that he wouldn’t fancy her any more. But then, years later, Calisto’s still a bear and she sees her son hunting in the forest, and he’s just about to shoot her with an arrow when Jupiter takes pity on them and turns them both into stars to hide them and keep them safe. But Juno gets wind of it and fixes it so they end up opposites - Ursa Major and Minor - so they never get to meet. So it’s all just very, very sad.”

Harry shuffles himself up onto one elbow and looks down at Zayn, “Why though?”

Zayn glances up and sees Harry’s eyes are wide and shining bright in the moonlight.

“Why what?” 

“Why did they do that to Calisto? What did she do?”

Zayn looks back up at the sky, “Do? Nothing. They did it because she was beautiful.”

“That’s terrible.” Harry murmurs after a long pause. “Why’d they call the boat after such a terrible thing?”

Zayn shrugs, “Same, I suppose. She was beautiful.”

“If there’s one thing the Ancient Greeks taught us,” Louis wheezes as he sucks on the pipe, “it’s that life isn’t fucking fair.”

Zayn turns to look up at the sky again, when he hears Harry shift beside him.

“It really isn’t fucking fair,” Harry whispers, and then he’s suddenly melting into Zayn’s side, wriggling until he’s tucked in tight to his body.

Zayn and Louis exchange looks of shock over his head, and then Zayn does the only thing he can think of, and wraps his arms tight around Harry, pressing his lips into the top of his head. 

“Wow,” Louis says, eyes narrowed, “you two really should take a copyright out on your depiction of tragic angst. Fuck’s sake!”

They both jerk to look at him. He’s staring at them, shaking his head, exasperation ebbing from his pores. Zayn starts to laugh.

“Louis…” he starts, but then he feels Harry laughing too, his cheek cushioning with his smile, where his face is resting on Zayn’s neck.

“Well,” Louis nudges their entwined legs with his foot, “now that Zayn’s cheered us all up, Harry, may I suggest you sit up and allow me to continue storytime hour with a scuba diving tale that involves Liam, the worst hangover of his life, choppy seas, and a startling discovery about what fish consider gourmet eats.”

Zayn feels Harry puff a small laugh against the skin of his neck, and then he’s rolling up, reaching for the newly packed bowl that Louis is extending to him.

“OK,” he says, “that sounds like a better story.”

 

By the time they make it back to the Calista, they’re laughing and unsteady and have to hold each others’ hands to clamber back on board. Zayn’s so stoned he thinks that maybe they’re all just gripping onto each other to keep themselves from floating away to the heavens.

 

///

 

The cove Nigel’s bring them to next morning is indeed so beautiful that the Huxleys all decide to stay on the beach with Al and Harry for the whole day, supplies ferried over to them from the boats so they can stay on to watch the sun set, and then after, to look at the stars.

Zayn and Liam set torches onto a rock just out from the beach and their blaze had danced glints of amber on the waves, as overhead the sky slowly deepened to a dark indigo. The Huxleys had oohed and clapped at the spectacle while they rolled their way through lobster claws, snapper ceviche, strawberries, bottles of champagne. Niall had played his guitar for them and Zayn couldn’t stop grinning when Harry pulled everyone up to dance over the sand, even as the tide rose around their ankles.

A little later, Harry swung the elderly Mrs Huxley Snr from her deck chair and serenaded her inside the circle of his arms, and Zayn’s fingers itched for his sketchpad and pencils. He stared and stared, trying to imprint the image into his memory forever - the way Harry made her laugh until her cheeks flamed pink, while everyone around them clasped hands and cheered, and the campfire sparked tiny fireworks upwards into the sky. 

Zayn’s could see Harry scanning around over Mrs Huxley’s shoulder, every now and then as he swayed her gently. When he eventually caught Zayn’s eyes, his face split into a huge grin.

Zayn just smiled back, keeping back into the shadows, until Harry broke off to lead Mrs Huxley back to her chair. Al had wandered over to him with another drink, then, and Zayn kicked his toes into the damp sand, listening to everyone talk and laugh.

Eventually, the darkness had cloaked around them, and the lights of the two boats in the harbour glowed over the water like fairy castles and the tired guests directed the crew to bring them back, drawing the blankets around their shoulders and brushing the sand from their feet.

As everyone got busy organising themselves to board the tenders, Liam nodded at Zayn to pack up the detritus of the day, so he quickly got to work, tidying up the mess, packing the used crockery into baskets, making sure the campfire was out, stacking the deckchairs. He’s left everything packed and lined up neatly on the beach when he pulls off his shirt to wades out to collect the torch stands from the rock. 

He’s just clambering onto it when the tenders buzz past - Mrs Huxley blows kisses at him while Louis, behind the wheel, clips his heels together and stiffly salutes. Zayn laughs and waves back at them, and turns back to his task, when he sees that there’s someone in the water, swimming out to him from the shore.

Zayn lowers himself down from the rock back into the water - the temperature has dropped now that day has ended, and it feels cold where it laps up against his waist. 

A few moments pass before he recognises Harry. There’s a grin on his face that’s visible when his face rises with each stroke through the water. 

Zayn just waits for him, head tilted to one side, wondering why he waited back, trying not to think about the sudden pump of heat he’s feeling low in his belly. 

When Harry reaches him, he swims up close before standing up right in front of him. He drags a hand through his wet hair to pull it back from his face, smiling steadily, but his eyes are nervous and searching as he looks at Zayn.

“Hi,” Harry says. “The tender was kinda full, so I said I’d wait back. Keep you company.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say. Just stands there.

The wash from the tenders reaches them and a wide wave washes around the side of the rock. Zayn feels its force dragging against his body and it lifts him up in its swell, up off his feet. There’s a tiny split second when fear flutters its wings inside his chest, but then his feet connect again with the sandy bottom almost straight away. He reaches out and puts his hand on the rock beside them to steady himself.

“You ok?” Harry’s asking.

“Yeah, just don’t like getting out of my depth.” Zayn tells him and Harry smiles lightly back, nodding sympathetically.

Another wave now, bigger, swarms gently around the rock. Zayn’s ready for it this time, leaning into it but it disconnects his hand from the rock, sweeps him closer to Harry, and somehow he’s reached out and clutched at Harry’s shoulder without meaning to.

Harry just smiles at him and takes his elbow. “You’re OK,” he reassures him, “I got you.”

“We should …” Zayn starts, but Harry’s body is against his then, their hips side by side, knocked together by the tug of the water. 

Zayn feels Harry’s skin, sun-warmed and smooth, underneath the reach of his hand on his shoulder. He feels the tickle of wet tendrils of Harry’s hair brushing against the back of his hand and his muscles shift and ripple when he moves, the solidity of him in the swirling water.

Harry’s so close. And so warm - this hot body pressing against his in the cold water. And his face is right there, right by Zayn’s. He can feel his breath against his cheek, the tremor in it. Zayn realises then that Harry’s trembling all over.

“You cold?” Zayn asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Harry just looks back at him, lips gently parted. He shakes his head, slowly, eyes sweeping over each part of Zayn’s face, his lips.

Zayn’s hand rises to cup the back of Harry’s head and he’s leaning in. His heart’s pounding and he knows this is a bad idea, knows how many reasons this is stupid, but he can’t stop himself. He presses his lips to Harry’s, gently, barely grazing against them. And Harry doesn’t move at first, just stands there, steadily holding Zayn while the tide surges around their chests. 

Zayn waits, just for a beat, before pulling back. Shame flares through his belly. Shit. Why does he keep doing this? This is twice, he’s kissed Harry. Harry, who’s a guest, who’s with someone. Harry who’s just sweet and flirty with everyone. Harry who just stayed back to be nice, to do Zayn a favour. Harry who he’s now got to apologise to and hope won’t make a complaint. 

“Harry, I’m sorr-”

He suddenly feels Harry’s wet arms slinking around his neck, pulling him in, drawing their chests together. Harry’s lips are back against his before he can figure this out, and they’re cold and taste of seawater and are urgent and press hard and when Zayn opens his mouth to gasp in surprise, Harry doesn’t let up, just pressing in deeper and licking his tongue into Zayn’s mouth hungrily.

Zayn can’t help giving in to it. He slides his hands down over Harry’s broad shoulders, feeling the swell of his biceps inside his palms. His hips jut forwards, into Harry’s, and they both breath in deeply through their noses, lips pressed so hard together than Zayn’s tastes the metallic tang of blood from somewhere.

Harry dips and then he’s gnawing at the underside of Zayn’ jaw, teeth nibbling sharply against his skin, wreaking a shudder right through him.

“Zayn,” Harry breaths against his skin and then he wriggles his thigh between Zayn’s when another wave comes and makes them both weightless. Harry presses his body into Zayn’s in a slow roll … thighs, groins, stomachs, chests. They float together, momentarily aloft in the cold water, before the wave washes out again and their feet connect with the sandy bottom.

Zayn can’t breath. He can’t even see. He tries to open his eyes, but when he does it’s only Harry’s face there, open mouthed, flushed, so he can only shut them again and bite his lip to hold back the sigh that fills his lungs.

They drift backwards, half walking, half floating, until they end up in the shelter of a corner of the rock where it juts out in a low slope into the sea. Its angle blocks them from the view of the yachts and the water here is calmer, shallower. 

Zayn’s hands drift down the length of Harry’s long back and he feels him shudder under the touch.

“OK?” he breaths against Harry’s ear, and is answered with a press of Harry’s hot mouth against his. 

Harry’s body doesn’t stop. He’s writhing up against him, panting, tiny whimpers escaping his mouth when Zayn’s fingertips dip underneath the waistband of his swim shorts, pressing into the firm muscles of his buttocks.

“Zayn, fuck,” Harry moans, and he starts to grind a slow rhythm, the hard bulk of his cock pressing firmly into Zayn’s stomach under the waterline. His hands drift lower, across Zayn’s stomach and into his shorts, wrapping around his dick and pumps gently until he wrenches a low moan from him. His fingers drag long, slow tugs and Zayn’s fingers are leaving white circles into Harry’s shoulders, as Harry keeps working him, his palm twisting, his other hand cupping over his balls until Zayn’s gasping, right into Harry’s mouth that’s there, hovering open, over his.

It all peaks before he even realizes he's getting close and he's gasping, shuddering, spilling hotly into the seawater then, as Harry’s tongue dances lightly over Zayn’s lips.

Harry lets go and drifts away a little, breaths coming heavily through his parted lips, strands of wet hair slick across his cheek.

Zayn looks blankly at him, feeling spaced and blissed out, but behind that, a new throb of desire so strong he can barely breath.

Harry takes a step backwards until he’s backed up against the slope of rock, and then his hands reach behind him and he hauls himself up, out of the water to rest the length of his body along the glistening stone. 

His eyes flicker upwards to meet Zayn’s, just for a moment, and then he’s looking down over his own body, at the shudder of his chest, the hollow dip of his stomach. He tucks his heels securely onto the rock, and raises his hips, levering his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts, shimmying them down along his legs and slapping them up on the rock behind him.

Zayn can’t catch his breath, looking up at this sight. Harry - splayed, naked on the rock in front of him, leaning back on his elbows, his cock flushed and hard and lying into the crevice of his hip. He widens the spread of his legs, one knee propped up, and lets his head fall back before letting his fingers run lightly along the line of his torso, down over his stomach, reaching down to run a light grip along the length of his dick, thumbing the head.

He glances up again at Zayn as if checking to see he’s watching, as if Zayn had the power to do anything now but gape.

“Come closer,” Harry tells him, darkly.

Zayn’s on top of him instantly, raising himself up from the water while Harry collapses flat back onto the rock, reaching into Zayn’s hair and grasping tight as Zayn’s mouth fits over his.

It’s fierce, what Zayn’s feeling. He wants to tear the world open right then, drown himself in the molten heat thats burning deep under the surface. Harry’s body is moving in undulations under him, and it’s really making Zayn want to not be polite any more. He slides his hands over every part of Harry he can reach, he wants to touch every part of him at once, he wants to taste every part of him. 

His full weight is pressing down on Harry and he’s trying to hold himself up so he’s not crushing him, but Harry keeps shifting and grabbing at his back to pull him back in close, grinding up into him.

Zayn’s mouth is working against Harry’s skin, down his neck, tonguing over the nubs of his nipples, delving into the crevices under his ribs, his bellybutton. He’s licking up the salt-water from him, and then his leaking dick is in Zayn’s hand and Zayn’s leans down to taste the saltiness on the tip as Harry moans and writhes underneath him.

Zayn tries to be good. Tries to remember what it is to deliver good technique. He’s done this before of course, but not for a while now. Not sober. Not when he’s feeling so far gone himself. So he’s sloppy and almost chokes himself a few times, but he hears the noises Harry’s making and he sucks him in so hard and deep his cheeks ache. 

The angle is weird so he slinks back into the water, gripping at Harry’s thighs. He pulls him gently, sliding him down the slope of rock until he’s positioned just right, so his hips are level with Zayn’s mouth, his feet planted securely either side him. Harry’s voice catches on each breath, an almost pained whimper, a noise that crescendos when Zayn takes him back in his mouth, running his tongue over the head. 

Harry tilts his hips up and back, just a little pulse. Zayn feels his muscles clenching with the effort to control it, and Zayn would smile at his effort to be considerate, but his mouth is otherwise occupied. Zayn lets his free hand roam over Harry’s torso, lightly tipping over his nipples again and again when he hears Harry’s breath catch each time he does. Then, Harry’s body starts to judder, his fingers squeeze a tight twist into Zayn’s hair, and he groans loudly as his come splurts against Zayn’s chin.

“Oh, shit,” he gasps, grabbing his dick, the wetness he tries to contain spilling over his knuckles. “Zayn…”

He sounds pitiful, almost, and Zayn bites back a grin. 

He did that.

Harry flops back limply onto the rock. He’s shaking slightly, still, the heel of one hand pressed into his forehead, and he huffs a half-pant/half-laugh, peeping through his fingers at Zayn.

 

It’s the wash of a wave that breaks Zayn’s gaze and makes him glance over his shoulder at the beach behind him. 

The tender came back - Zayn can’t believe he didn’t hear it pass by. He sees two shadowy forms moving around the beach, hauling up the packs Zayn had left there, then the engine revs up and he sees the white bulk of the vessel shifting and start to point back out away from shore.

“Oh shit,” Zayn curses, and then he sees the light of a torch sweeping over the waves towards then, then it flashes twice to signal it sees them, and its engine roars as it manoevers around and heads slowly towards them. 

“Shit!” Zayn curses again, shaking Harry’s leg, “Harry - fuck - where are your shorts? Someone’s coming!”

Harry rolls up and somehow they find his shorts in the darkness and he wriggles into them. Zayn bites his lip and tries to readjust himself inside his own shorts, stomach in knots as he prays its not Liam.

The torch Louis’ holding shines bright into his eyes - Zayn only realises its him when he hears the sarcastic, “Oh there you are lads, having a nice time then? Bit late for rock climbing isn’t it?”

Sven’s at the boat’s stern, towels in hand, and he’s reaching out for the torch stands Harry’s passing him, and then stands back to give him space to leap from the rock into the back of the tender.

“Get aboard then, you idiot,” Louis changes his tone to grumble directly at Zayn, who is awkwardly trying to angle the embarrassment that is his crotch away from everyone’s view while jumping aboard. 

Harry’s right there when his feet thump onto the deck, and Zayn grabs the towel he’s offering, wrapping it quickly around his waist with a grateful glance. Harry must be feeling as awkward as Zayn is because he doesn’t really meet his eye, just taps a brief touch to his elbow and slinks into a seat at the stern, looking back at the island retreating away from them, chewing at the tip of his thumb.

“Zayn!” Louis shouts over the engine noise, “C’mere a sec, will ya?”

When Zayn stands beside him Louis reaches up and delivers a deft flick of his finger right into Zayn’s forehead.

“Ouch!” Zayn flinches, rubbing the sting, “What the fuck, Louis?”

Louis looks ahead again, shaking his head. “I’m trading you in for a new model,” he tells him dryly. 

“Louis -” Zayn begins, but Louis just holds his palm up to him, shutting him up.

“Let’s deliver your little sugar baby back to where he belongs and then I plan to take you aside and beat some sense into that beautiful but tragically empty head of yours.”

 

They pull up and unload at the swim platform.

Harry wanders up to the freshwater shower there, and yanks the chain, drenching himself while Zayn helps Sven with the baskets.

Suddenly, Louis’ swearing rings out over the activity.

“For fucks sake Zayn! What the hell! Are you trying to get fired?!”

Zayn whirls around and sees Louis grabbing Harry’s elbow in the shower, pulling him around so he’s getting a good look at his back. Lines of red scratches streak angrily across the back of his shoulder blades. 

“What the fuck did you do to him, Zayn?!” Louis’ ranting at him.

Zayn gapes. “That wasn’t me… I didn’t…”

Harry pulls his elbow back from Louis, and twists the water out of his hair. “It was just the rock. It isn’t anything.”

“Shit Zayn,” Louis makes his way over to him and flicks him deliberately again in the middle of the forehead, ignoring his protest of pain, “so now you’ll lose your job, and then I’m going to have to quit along with you, so then we’re back to walking the docks and I liked it on this boat. It’s nice. The captain utterly ignores us, and I’ve just got Liam trained in and now, it’s all ruined and you-” he flicks Zayn’s forehead again, “ruined it.”

“No. But … why? Why would he lose his job?”

They turn to where Harry’s watching them, grasping a towel. His eyes are wide, face pale.

“Jesus, Harry!” Louis moves back to him, “It’s one thing you and dipshit here making moon-eyes at each other on the aft-deck, but you think Al’s really gonna keep him on the payroll just for you to fuck behind his back?”

Zayn’s fists clench. “Lou, stop being such a dickhead -”

Sven suddenly steps in between them, hands up placatingly. “Boys, boys. Maybe quieter, eh?”

Louis just glares at Zayn. “I liked this boat, Zayn.” 

“Louis it’ll be OK.”

Louis whirls and glares at Harry, pointing an accusing finger, “Stop flirting with him Harry. You’re going to fuck things up for him. For all of us. Just stay away from him, alright?”

Harry nods, eyes wide. “It won’t happen again. I’ll stay away. I’ll stay away from you Zayn, OK?” He turns to Zayn, towel twisting inside his hands.

Louis picks up a few bags and storms up the steps. Sven shrugs and follows.

 

“I’ll tell Al I slipped on the rock.” Harry continues, pressing the towel into his chin, “He won’t know anything. It’ll be OK, Zayn. You won’t lose your job, OK?”

Zayn turns away, suddenly feeling an exhaustion he’s never known before. “It doesn’t matter if I do, Harry. Don’t worry about it.” 

“But I don’t want you to lose your job. I didn’t think …”

“No, we didn’t think.”

Harry sighs and looks over the sea. “It’s not like we’re exclusive, or anything, me and Al. He even wouldn’t mind, I don’t think. I -”

“Maybe though,” Zayn interrupts, “don’t tell him, OK? We shouldn’t have. Or I shouldn’t have. I work for him. It’s like … overstepping lines or whatever.”

Harry nods, frowning at his toes where they’re clenching at the deck. He wraps his towel around his shoulders more tightly.

“Well, then.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry looks up at Zayn, confused.

“That it was hurting you?” Zayn says. He can’t quite bring himself to meet Harry’s face.

There’s a long pause before Harry answers quietly, “Thought that’s what you wanted.”

“What?” Zayn drops the bag he’d just picked up, “I wouldn’t … I … Fuck Harry.”

“But you pulled me down,” Harry says, his voice husky and low, “over the rock.”

“Fuck Harry, I didn’t - I wouldn’t -” Zayn hadn’t ever felt it so hard to breath before, “I don’t want to hurt you. Fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh. OK then. I didn’t mind anyway. It’s not bad.”

Zayn swallows, his mouth dry.

“Well,” Harry says, “goodnight then.”

“Goodnight Harry.”

“Sorry it all ended up so …”

“Yeah.”

Harry hesitates and then leans in and places a soft kiss on Zayn’s cheek before he turns away and climbs the steps.

 

 

Technically Zayn hasn’t finished his shift but he strides straight to his cabin, flings himself into his bunk and pulls the pillow out from under his head, slams it hard over his face and screams into it, so hard his throat feels like its ripping apart.

After a few minutes, he feels a gentle tug on the pillow and Nialls’ face appears as he pulls it away.

Niall’s hanging upside-down from his own bunk, frowning as he studiously examines Zayn’s face for a few seconds. Then he carefully places the pillow back, blanking out the world, tapping it gently back into place.

“Never mind,” Zayn hears him say, “Get it all out.”

Zayn pushes the pillow away again so he can look up at Niall .

“Niall - will you do me a favour?”

“Sure.” Niall says gently.

“Can you get the antiseptic lotion out of the first aid kit and help Harry. He scratched his back on a rock. He shouldn’t let it get infected.”

Niall nods once and slides down from the bunk. “No problemo.”

When he’s gone, Zayn presses the pillow over his face but somehow can’t summon the energy any more. He squeezes the soft cotton and wonders instead if he can persuade Niall to just smother him instead when he comes back.

 

///

 

The thoughts in Zayn’s mind the next morning run like painted horses on a jangling carousel. He wants Harry. He isn’t allowed Harry. He should leave. He doesn’t want to go home. He wants Harry. He isn’t allowed Harry…

Daiyu looked surprised but didn’t argue when he asked to swop chores and he’s stayed below all morning, vacuuming and dusting, while the rest of the crew lined up on deck to wave off the Carlisle.

When he gets to the Master Cabin, takes in the tangled bedcovers, Harry’s shirts hanging from the back of a chair, the smell of Al’s cologne, he has to deliberately force himself to breathe, in and out, because it felt at first like everything stopped, would stay stopped, he’d be stuck between heartbeats forever, because of how much he wants Harry. And because of how he isn’t allowed Harry. And he should leave. But he doesn’t want to go home. He wants Harry. He isn't allowed ...

 

“So, Zayn, you had fun then, yesterday?”

Zayn swirls around, the bedsheets he’s changing gripped tightly in his hands. He swallows, and tries to manage his face so it’s not showing anything but pleasantry as he smiles politely back at Al.

“Yes sir. Your guests were lovely,” he manages to say.

“And Harry? You found him lovely too?”

Zayn swallows.

“Because I certainly do,” Al continues unconcernedly, drifting through the cabin. He undoes the cufflinks of his shirt and lets them clatter onto the dresser. “Quite, quite lovely. Very agreeable company. Delighted you’re making an extra special effort to ensure he’s having a good time.”

Zayn feels his heart thunder inside his chest. It seems impossible that it can’t be heard outside of his own head.

“And you certainly did quite the number on him, by the looks of things.” Al continues. He strips off the shirt he’s wearing, tossing it onto the floor. Zayn looks at it there - he'll be picking that up in a few moments then. Al starts speaking again, scratching at his stomach, the thick muscles of his torso rippling with each movement.

“You left your mark, didn't you? But I do understand, how hard it is to hold back. I've found myself doing the same. I always regret leaving those bruises after, on such a pretty boy, but he does seem to like it rough, doesn’t he? Gets so into it. Brings out the baser instincts, I find. Makes one want to leave one's signature on him. A little ruination on that beautiful flesh ... And he never says stop. So I completely understand.”

Al’s eyes glint at him. “Still, maybe better to draw clear boundaries in these situations, don’t you think?”

Zayn hangs his head, his face flaming. 

“Because I do believe he’s a bit mixed up, our Harry. Feeling a lot of guilt, still, over what happened, and I suspect that’s behind his reluctance to say no. Oh!” Al raises an eyebrow when Zayn looks up questioningly - “he hasn’t told you ... of course. Of course he hasn’t. … Well … perhaps you should know ... now that you’re …”

Al moves to sit on the little banquette underneath the window. He gestures to the space beside him, but Zayn’s stomach clenches so tight just then he thinks he’s about to throw up. He sinks slowly onto the mattress behind him instead, the sheets still tightly grasped in his hands.

“It was all a bit sordid, really, the whole story,” Al says, his blue eyes piercing into Zayn, “The professor he became involved with lost all sense of probity, really. Started to bring Harry along to all sorts of social occasions - flaunting him about. Raised a few eyebrows at the golf-club, I'll tell you. That's where I met Harry, by the way. I was, I admit, quite drawn to him - this charming, sweet-faced young student, who was, despite his swagger, not all that experienced, obviously not quite _our sort_ but pleasant company none-the-less. But the foolishness of this respected Professor falling for one of his students! It was quite the talking point, let me tell you. 

"Harry quickly realised the consequences of being seen together at public gatherings. So quite soon after it began, Harry tries to break things off with our academic friend - who - I regret to say, doesn’t take it at all well.

“Well, I won’t bring you through the details, but the events that followed were quite unpleasant. I suppose the Professor believed himself to be wooing, but it was, of course, harassment - endless phone calls, text messages, gifts, visits at odd hours. Threats, on occasion. Of course the other students picked up on it, and unfortunately came to their own inaccurate conclusion that the relationship was the source of Harry’s excellent academic achievements, and word inevitably reached the Dean’s office, and an investigation ensued. A very public investigation.

“Harry came to me to ask for my legal counsel. Despite everything, he didn't want the Professor to lose his position at the University, knew how much it meant to him. I advised him to just tell the truth. He had his own future to consider. So, that’s what he did. But, well, I think you heard the end of the story. Our Professor was found by the cleaning staff, hanging from the bookshelves in his office. A waste. A terrible waste. An utterly pointless gesture.

Al shakes his head slowly, but, Zayn notices, there's no real change to his facial expression - eyes glinting, a hint of a smirk about his mouth.

“And to see how it affected Harry … well, he didn’t say _no_ very much, after all that. Such an amenable chap, always. Always a smile for everyone. Likes to be liked. And he always got _a lot_ of invitations. But after… well ... it was different. Something a bit more worrying about it all - the way he'd get himself about, anyone's for the night. He was getting a bit of a reputation.”

Al claps his hands onto his knees and looks sternly at Zayn.

“… So I stepped in. 

“And I’ve become very fond of him, Zayn. I believe I know what’s best for him. I knew a little trip away would be good for him - a chance to reconfigure the settings perhaps. So I’m glad he’s decided to have a little fun with someone like you, someone decent yet dispensable ... if you'll forgive the term?

“I’m really quite grateful to you. But as I said, I believe it’s wise to draw a few lines in the sand.”

Zayn decides to just call it before Al says any more. He clears his throat and says, “I’ll resign. As soon as we get to port, OK? I’ll leave.”

But… the thoughts beat inside his head… he doesn’t want to go home. He just wants Harry. He can’t have Harry …

“Oh my goodness, why would you do such a thing Zayn?” Al exclaims, standing suddenly and drifting over to the wardrobe, flicking the hangers along, a metallic screech ringing out each time. “A good worker like you? Nigel would have my skin! And Harry has asked so nicely to make sure your position is retained. No, you’re misunderstanding me. I’m not at all concerned. I don’t mind at all when the other children play with my toys…”

He pauses, turning to face Zayn, “But not when they’re damaged when they’re returned, OK? If that happens, I just take them back. No second chances.”

Al selects a shirt from a hanger, shrugging into it, looking at himself in the mirror as he buttons it up slowly.

“Of course, I do understand that it’s usual to pay a certain premium for exclusivity…”

He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and delicately selects a few notes, folding them neatly before striding forward to tuck them into Zayn’s shirt pocket.

“Please stay with us Zayn. We’d very much miss your face if you weren’t around.”

 

 

Zayn forced himself to finish the chores, even went to the galley for the crew lunch, jigging his legs under the table and glaring at anyone who tried to speak to him.

When he finds Harry, he’s in the Lounge, slumped into the recliner armchair, blanket loosely around his torso, bare legs sticking out the bottom. There’s some corny romantic comedy on the plasma screen.

Harry’s eyes are heavy lidded and hazy when Zayn makes his presence known by striding up to him, flipping the €1,000 Al had given him earlier onto his stomach.

Harry looks down slowly. “What’s this?”

“Your price, apparently,” Zayn says, his heart pounding. There’s so much he wants to say but he can’t trust his voice right now. His throat is clenching so tight he knows it’s going to strangle every word.

“Oh,” Harry says, lightly. Then he laughs mirthlessly. “That’s just Al, trying to win. He just did that to make you mad, Zayn. To make you not want to be around. He’s just playing you.”

Harry gathers the notes from his stomach and folds them neatly before placing them on the coffee table in front of him. There’s a clink of ice against glass as Harry reaches down for the drink he’s left on the floor beside his chair. Zayn can’t quite bring himself to look at him. He could go now, he thinks, after all - maybe there’s nothing to say. He isn’t allowed to have him.

Harry shifts in his chair. “Al figured something had happened. He wasn’t mad or anything. He said it made him realise … He wants … he asked me to stay with him.”

“Oh,” Zayn starts, “but … the weekend … isn’t his …”

“His wife is coming, yes.” Harry takes another drink. “He said he’s going to leave her.”

Zayn blinks at him.

“Yeah,” Harry laughs again, looking at his drink, “for me. Nuts, right?”

Zayn feels like the floor is opening underneath him, and he’s plunging deep deep deep into the bottom of the ocean.

“He cares about me. He wants to help me out. He thinks I’m sweet.”

“You are sweet,” Zayn says quietly before he can stop himself.

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not.”

Zayn pauses. “So what are you going to do?”

“I dunno… Right now I’m getting drunk.”

“Do you … care about him? Like, really? Because, Harry, he just gave me a grand to make me -”

Harry glances up sharply. “Yeah I care about him. I wouldn’t be with him if I didn’t. He gets me. He knows how I am. I want to experience everything there is to try and he wants that for me too.”

Zayn nods, looking away. The question clangs in his brain - was _he_ just something Harry wanted to try out? 

“OK. Well. I hope it works out.”

Harry sinks back. “Yeah. Me too.”

Harry picks up his drink again and swallows it all back, gulp after gulp. He smacks his lips together when he finishes it. “It’s the best thing to do, isn't it? I need someone like him, someone who’ll stop me fucking up all the time. It’s my new resolution, Zayn - no more ruining people’s lives.” Harry’s voice is very soft, he’s speaking into the glass right in front of him, it comes out echoey and weird. “Done enough of that!” He smiles a really bright fake smile and Zayn suddenly wants to cry. Or kick him in the nuts. One of those.

“Well,” Zayn says tightly, “whatever makes you happy, Harry.”

And when he was saying it, he thought he meant it but afterwards he hears how bitchy that sounded, while Harry slumps there alone, drinking himself into a stupor, but it’s all the fight that Zayn’s got left in him. 

Harry laughs that humourless laugh again.

“Just two days Zayn. Then I’m gone. I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. Then I’ll be gone and your job will be OK and your next guests will arrive and you can forget all about us. It’ll all be fine.”

He turns back to the screen where Julia Roberts is declaring that she’s just a girl, looking at a boy, asking him to love her.

And Zayn turns and walks away because of how much he wants, and can’t, have.


	5. Hydra

Zayn doesn’t know how much Liam has heard, but considering the amount of work he’s suddenly put Zayn’s way, he's got enough of the story to take tactful measures to keep Zayn out of the path of their guests. So he's been more or less banished to the darker confines of the boat, scrubbing and dusting, stock-taking supplies, even helping Sven swap the air filters. 

But Zayn’s grateful. The chores keep him from thinking, from lingering around the deck, trying to divert his gaze from Harry, counting down hours that are too few to countenance. 

There’s only one day left, just one, then Harry’s leaving, and maybe that twists Zayn’s guts until he’s almost folding over with the pain of it, but really, so what? It's not like it matters to anyone else. It's not like the feelings broiling inside him make the slightest difference here, on this gleaming boat, on this relentless sea. His current task is to clean out the grooves of the lounge window frames with cotton buds. It’s tedious and finicky but it’s work, and work is the only strategy he’s got at the moment, to get him through.

Zayn rubs the sweat away from his forehead after reaching the end of the first window. He’s twisting his head around, massaging the aching muscles of his neck when he looks out over the sea and sees them - dark triangles cutting through the waves.

“Fuck” he breathes. 

Despite everything, there’s only a second when he wrestles internally. Then he walks over to the phone embedded into the wall. 

“Niall,” he says, “get Harry.”

 

///

 

The tender’s engines idle like kitten purrs while Niall hauls Harry up out of the water. He’s long and slinky as a baby seal. When he gets back on board, he immediately folds over his knees on the deck, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Niall laughs at him gently, squeezing a hand into his shoulder, and asks, “Are you crying, Harry?”

He looks up over his clenched hands, blinking his wet eyelashes rapidly, “I don’t think they’re dolphins. They’re like, really big for dolphins.”

“They’re pilot whales, you idiot.” Louis says, slumping onto the floor beside Harry and pulling off his fins. “It was Zayn who spotted them, you know,” and Zayn wants to whack him.

The pod of whales puff gently through the waves around them, slicing their grey fins through the water in a circular rhythm that Zayn feels in his veins.

 

Harry looks over to Zayn, who manages to hold his gaze for a moment before looking away, just long enough to see the shine in Harry's eyes when he leans forward and says sincerely “Thank you Zayn.”

They follow the fins at a respectful distance for a while, watching the looping pulse of their path through the seas. Clouds are drawing in overhead, grey and dark, and the damp breeze raises goosebumps on everyone's skin.

“Look, they’re coming round.” Louis turns the engine down to a low idle as they watch the fins making a wide circle through the waves in front of the boat.

The lads gather and sit on the edge of the tender, attaching flippers and snorkle masks.

Louis holds out his mask to Zayn, “You wanna go this time?”

Zayn shakes his head quickly. “Nah, I’m good. Can see ‘em from here.”

“It’s different underneath the surface, Zayn.” Niall tells him, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t like getting out of my depth.”

“You should, Zayn, seriously.”

Zayn looks out over the water, biting his lip. The land isn’t even visible anymore, disappeared behind a grey mist that’s almost enveloped the distant Calista too. He shakes his head again. “Don’t want to.”

“I’ll stay with you, I promise. You’ll be OK.” Harry says, looking over his shoulder as his feet overhang the water.

“I just don’t want to.” 

“You don’t need to be scared, you can keep your life-jacket on and everything.”

“I’m not scared.”

The boys all exchange a smirk.

“I’m not scared.” Zayn insists and realises he sounds like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

He grabs the snorkle mask from Louis, rams it over his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the boat before he can second guess himself.

 

Cold, jolting cold water rushes over him, bubbles and confusion, heart thumping with the shock, and he looks down and sees nothing but endless, endless blue, blue, blue … a fathomless stretch of the colour … and it’s terrifying.

He kicks up to the surface, spluttering and coughing. He feels a touch on his shoulder and he gasps, losing his position in the water, spluttering again, paddling madly.

“Take this,” Harry’s telling him, pushing a float in his direction. Zayn leans his elbows gratefully over the top of it, conscious of all that emptiness underneath his feet. He can’t get his breath properly.

“It’s OK, I’ll stay close, I promise,” Harry tells him. He reaches towards Zayn’s face and tilts his snorkle mask for him, letting the clouding water drip free, then settles it back gently onto his face. He angles the snorkle tube correctly so Zayn can get it into his mouth, and then swims around until he’s beside him, hands reaching for the float, so they’re side by side, kicking softly.

Zayn lowers his face into the water again, breathing heavily though the snorkle. He tries to concentrate on the warmth of Harry’s arm where it touches against his elbow, instead of that bottomless blue surrounding them. He feels so lost. It’s all so vast and empty, like nowhere he should be, nowhere anyone should be.

He feels Harry’s fingers twist around his suddenly, and hears the muffled sound of his voice popping out somewhere overhead from the tip of his snorkle. Harry’s other hand appears now beneath him, pointing, and then Zayn sees them - black shapes, looming beneath them, deep in the darkness.

 

They watch for ages. The pod loom, shadows in the deep, and then drift closer like thunder clouds, slow and steady.

 

There are lots of them, Zayn’s not sure how to count but Harry’s fingers tighten around his again when a mother and baby drift into view, their bodies beating a slow pulse that drives them onwards.

Harry pats his hand lightly and suddenly he’s diving down, his arms trailing as he kicks deeper. The baby whale flicks its tail and it turns slowly, revolving in the water, scoping out its surroundings, and then Zayn finds he’s meeting its eye. He feels its curiosity, this sense that it’s amused, entertained by the odd, angular creatures that are flailing nearby.

It’s just like looking into any baby’s eyes, Zayn realises, any other kind of baby he’s ever met - open, curious, joyous. They look at each other in wonder. For a second Zayn feels like there’s a communion in all of it, every creature alive to newness, that feeling of beginning, that marvel at the world.

The baby whale’s eye then switches its gaze to look at Harry, still kicking slowly in it’s direction.

Then, the mother whale’s immense body rises up from the depth, and gently drifts into the space between Harry and her child. She moves back down deeper, the calf alongside her, like there’s an invisible tether between them. 

The black shapes of the rest of the pod loom all around, and they all gradually swim back into the fathoms.

Zayn sees Harry slowly kick back up to the surface, his head dipped to keep focused on the whales.

Zayn’s floating star-shaped, just one hand on the float, and he reaches out for Harry when he comes back.

Neither of them take their faces up from the water, just grip tight, floating face down. They watch the whales swim away, til they are eventually swallowed up into the hazy indigo.

Harry dives again suddenly, but he doesn’t go far this time, just deep enough to swim beneath Zayn and twist around. Zayn sees his face through their masks, the shine in Harry’s eyes behind the perspex, the smile at the corner of his lips around the breathing tube. Zayn’s suddenly aware he’s beaming too, and an involuntary chuckle causes his tube to slip and then cold salt water’s flooding his mouth, and he’s spluttering and flailing, and he kicks himself upright in the water, pulling off the mask and tugging the float tight into his body.

Harry pops up out of the water beside him, spouting water from the top of his snorkle tube. He slips his arms either side of Zayn’s shoulders, grips onto the float into place in front of them and he kicks them back towards the boat, his breath puffing close to Zayn’s ear.

 

Louis’ and Niall are waiting, hands hanging over the boat as Harry guides him back. They heave him up and then Zayn’s unceremoniously slapped onto the deck. He rolls over and lays flat on his back, panting, feeling boneless and heavy. Louis’s hand reaches down to ruffle his hair and a towel lands nearby.

The boat tips sideways momentarily and then Harry’s on deck too, drips splattering onto Zayn’s body. They’re all talking over his head, but Zayn can’t really take anything in. He keeps looking upwards up at the clouds, feeling weirdly blank. Or no, he thinks, not blank ... just ... peaceful.

Someone steps over him, and then the deck vibrates with the engines kicking off, and they’re bouncing over the waves. Zayn struggles up onto his elbows and finds Harry sitting on the floor opposite him, back resting against the seat, a towel loosely around his shoulders, legs sprawled, drinking from a bottle of water. 

He meets Zayn’s eye as he swallows. 

Zayn shivers, the breeze rushes over his skin and goosebumps rise everywhere. He doesn’t seem to have quite gotten his breath back.

Harry leans forward to offer the bottle of water, and when Zayn takes it, their chilled fingers brush against each other. Zayn sips at the bottle, his lips feeling salt-puckered and parched. He only realises he hasn’t broken his gaze from Harry’s when Niall slips into the seat beside him, his knee nudging into Zayns shoulder.

“Glad you did it then?” he asks over the roar of the engine and the wind.

“Yeah,” Zayn says softly, looking back at Harry. He leans out and passes the water back to him. When Harry leans towards him too, he tells him, “Thank you, Harry,” and Harry’s eyes light up.

He flings a towel to Zayn, “Wrap up, don’t get cold.”

Zayn leans into Niall’s legs, and pulls the towel tight around him.

He's smiling then. He can't stop.

 

///

 

Zayn’s helping Patrice clean the oven. They’ve got the door unhinged and laid on the floor when Louis enters, kicking over the cup holding all the screws. He scrambles around picking them up and gets close to Zayn, grabs the sleeve of his shirt to pull him in and whisper, “Can you get off for an hour? Getting rid of the stuff. Come with me?”

Zayn shifts back on his heels to consider Louis’ face. For once he actually looks a little bit uncertain, his blue eyes sparking with anxiety.

“Yeah, OK,” Zayn whispers back, out of Patrice’s earshot, “Let me figure something out.”

 

They’ve reached Hydra, dropped anchor just outside the harbour and Zayn manages to convince Liam he needs an hour to visit a doctor for a new prescription for his migraines, because, he says, he feels like one is just coming on so he doesn’t think it can wait until morning. He felt guilty when Liam asks a hundred questions about how badly he’s been feeling and why didn’t he tell him sooner, but when he clambers into the tender after Louis just as the sun is going down and sees the three tightly packed yellow dry-sacs, propped on the floor at the stern, he quickly forgets all about him and feels the zip of adrenalin run along his veins instead.

They’ve just untangled the rope when they hear a loud, “Hold up!” and Liam leans over from the top deck. “Al and Harry are at the pier. You can pick them up too, Louis, bring them back while Zayn’s at the medical centre.”

“Shit,” Zayn hears Louis whisper, before he turns, with a bright thumbs up gesture for Liam, and twists the ignition. Zayn’s standing right beside Louis, but he still has to lean in close to his mouth to hear him, “I’m already late for Christos’ guys. Fuck.”

They pull out from the platform and ease the tender back from the Calista. The engine gurgles when Louis switches it from reverse, and kicks it up a gear.

“We’ll just get the lads, drop them back quickly and then go round the point. The others’ll just have to wait another half-hour. Fuck ‘em.” Louis nods to himself.

“Lou,” Zayn says to him over the roar of the engine, gripping tight to the back of Louis’ steering seat as they bounce over the waves, “just how serious are these guys? Should we be scared? Maybe we should, like, tell someone where we’re going?”

Zayn doesn’t intend to admit how he’s actually already scared, especially when Louis just shrugs and makes a face. 

“I dunno, mate, not exactly done this before have I? I mean,” he shrugs again, tossing his fringe out of his eyes, “Where’s the problem? Hard to see what can go wrong? We give them the bags, they give us the money, we shake hands and go our separate ways. End of.”

They’re crossing the stretch of open water that lies between their mooring and the horseshoe shaped harbour when Zayn feels Louis stiffen beside him. A speedboat has just rounded the rocky point behind them. It’s spiky with antennae, and drifts to a slow stop not far from the Calista. They see the shapes of two men in the back, one of them seems to be looking through binoculars at them.

Louis looks back over his shoulder at them a couple of times before waving over haltingly. He turns to Zayn, looking a bit sheepish now, “This has ended up being a bit more stressful than I expected, Zayn. If it’s any consolation I reckon this is it for me and smuggling.”

When they get into the crowded jetties of waterfront, it takes them a while to locate Harry and Al, the pier cluttered with fishing boats and small sailboats, tied up two abreast. Harry’s sitting on the end of the pier, legs dangling over the edge, while Al is pacing around behind him, on his phone, laughing so loudly it carries over the low rumble of Louis’ slowly moving tender.

They pull up as close as they can and Al descends heavily, his boots thunking loudly when they connect with the boat floor. Harry follows, a little more softly, but swinging his arms about widely as he loses his balance after landing. 

Zayn tries to hide his smile, but Harry, aware as always of Zayn’s glances, sees him and shoots an embarrassed grin back. They’ve mostly been keeping out of each others’ way since they got back from swimming with the whales, but the air between them still crackles, Zayn feels like, whenever they’re near each other. He turns away again quickly, his insides twisting, and he’s not sure if it’s because of Harry or the drugs they’ve got on board, but either way, Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever been so anxious to get back to his cabin on the Calista.

Harry slides in beside Al, twisting his hair back into a knot at the back of his head as Louis picks up speed and the wind roars in their faces. Al rests one leg up on top of one of the bags and Zayn turns away hurriedly.

 

As soon as they leave the harbour, the speed boat zips up from nowhere to pull along beside them. It’s slivery sleek and the windows of the cab are darkened out. The two men in the back are half concealed behind scarves and sunglasses.

All of which causes Zayn to swallow tightly. His heart is hammering inside his chest, and he clenches his hands around the wheel stand, as Louis hesitates and then calls out a hearty, “Hi lads!” and waves.

Zayn shoots a look over at the two men in the speedboat. Their faces, the parts he can see, are unmoved and they stare fixedly over at them. Behind him, Zayn sees that Al and Harry are both looking confused.

“Just dropping these two back and we’ll be right with you,” Louis calls over. 

But the guys remain statue-like. It’s just then that Zayn realises they’re continuing to drive their boat alongside the tender, coming closer and closer, until the fenders bump and a juddering shock rocks through their boat, almost knocking Zayn off his feet. 

“Hey!” he hears Al shout from behind him, “what’s going on? Louis - get these idiots to back off.”

But the speedboat bumps them again, and Louis shoots a wide-eyed look at Zayn. 

He knocks the tender back to a slower speed, but when he looks back up at the speedboat, his face blanches. Zayn turns and sees one of the guys is holding a handgun, casually gripping it by his thigh. He jerks his head towards the rocky point - where they were originally meant to meet up - and Zayn hears Louis take a shaky breath and turn in that direction.

Now that it’s all happening, everything he’d feared, Zayn feels strangely calm. Resignation settles as comfortably as a sleeping cat inside his chest and he braces himself more strongly against the wheel stand. He eyes the speedboat, as it drives along steadily beside them, and checks behind to see both Al and Harry are frozen white faced and open mouthed.

Zayn thinks back to what Louis said earlier, and reckons the best thing is to work on the assumption that he was right - these guys won’t want any trouble either, they just want their stuff and to get out of there. They don’t need to think about anything beyond that point - get these guys happy so they’ll leave.

“Lets just make this easy for them,” Zayn murmurs to Louis, “just do whatever they want and we’ll get this over with.”

Louis nods, the muscles of his jaw twitching visibly under his skin.

Zayn turns then to look over his shoulder, “This is just a mix-up,” he tells Al and Harry, “just stay put and keep quiet and we’ll sort it.”

Harry nods blankly, but Al glowers at him. Zayn can feel the heat of his temper from across the deck and he just prays that Al can manage, to just this once, keep his gob shut.

 

They round the point and pull into the lee of the rocky cliffs. As they drift to a stop, Zayn takes the line that one of the guys holds out to him and wraps it around a cleat and is moving to the back of the boat to secure the other one, when he hears the thump of feet landing on their deck. Then there’s a loud crack and it’s Harry’s gasp that makes him turn and he sees Louis bent over, clutching his face. The man is roaring at him, in a language Zayn guesses is Spanish, but its so fast and angry that its impossible to be sure.

As Louis slowly straightens, blood drips from his nose through his fingers. He holds out his hands in appeasement, pleading, “Mate, wait! Everything’s here. I got your stuff. Its all here. Look!”

He points to the bags in the back.

The man left on the speedboat barks something at them then and Zayn and Louis exchange a look of helplessness.

“He wants you to open the bags. He says he’ll blow your brains out if anything’s missing.” Al says, calmly, crossing his arms over his chest, one eyebrow raised like he’s watching a particularly inept group of children try to tie their shoelaces.

Zayn pulls the bags out to the middle of the deck and unclips the seals. Inside he sees the neat bundles, tightly wrapped plastic and duct tape. The man with the gun gestures at him, so Zayn starts pulling the bundles out, lining them on the deck, while Louis babbles on to the men, telling them to relax, that everything’s ok, his voice nasally and thick as he tries to stopper the blood flow.

By the time the men have checked the bundles made Zayn and Louis repack the bags, Zayn’s fairly sure that they aren’t going to get shot. The two guys loosen their scarves and display the tough, weathered skin of fishermen, the skin on their hands tough and leathery. Zayn reckons they’re just the same as Louis, taking a reckless chance to make a quick buck.

He glances up at Harry and Al who have stayed silent and motionless throughout the whole thing, apart from Al’s helpful translations. Harry’s leaning over his knees on his elbows now, Al pressing on the small of his back with his palm, and if Zayn hadn’t got so much else to be bothered about just then he would probably see this moment as a confirmation that he’s lost, and Al’s won, and he’ll never get Harry to trust him again.

 

The fishermen are back on their boat, Louis untying the top line and tossing it back onto their deck, while Zayn hands the bags over.

“So, lovely meeting you. I feel we really bonded,” Louis snarks, dabbing his wrist under his bloody nose, “why don’t you come stay for Christmas? My Mum would love to have you both - she makes a mean pudding.”

“Louis, really?” Zayn huffs at him.

They stare over at the speedboat where the two guys are now stowing the bags, lashing them down under black plastic wrapping.

Louis stands with his hands on his hips, looking over at them. For some reason, maybe the pain in his face, he seems to have allowed his irritation to overrun his fear, and he starts grumbling as he watches the guys ready themselves for their departure.

“I suppose we’re not even going to get paid now, Zayn, after all this hassle, fucks sake.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, and says quietly, “Well I wasn’t ever getting paid, remember? And do not start anything now, Louis. I mean it.”

“No,” a voice comes from the back of the boat, “Louis, you're right. You should ask them, ask them for your money.”

Zayn whirls around to look incredulously at Al. Harry’s also sat up and turned to look at him, shaking his head. 

Al ignores them both to eye-ball Louis. He’s steady and unconcerned as a rock, his voice smooth and quiet. “Go on Louis. It's like I always say to my guys - close the deal. No glory in falling at the last hurdle. Get your money. El dinero. Say it.”

Zayn turns to watch a gritty expression cross Louis’ face, but he seems to consider it, chewing on his thumbnail. Eventually he nods and takes a breath.

“Hey! Dudes!” The two men turn and look over the side of the boat at him. “Where’s my money, then? El dinero? Where is it?”

The two guys look at each other and have some kind of muttered conversation. Eventually, one of them goes to open a locker in the cab of the boat, and comes back with a thick manilla envelope. He’s got the gun in his other hand and beckons at Zayn. He points at the rear line from their boat, and Zayn hurries to finish untying it, flinging it back at them, and then stands, resting his hands on the side of the tender, waiting to see what comes next.

The man moves down his boat to stand opposite Zayn and gestures at him again, beckoning at him to come closer.

Zayn looks back at Louis for some clue on what he’s supposed to do, but Louis’ just staring at him blankly. Zayn looks back at the guy who is leaning forward, the envelope in his hand. Zayn sighs and stretches out over the water between their boats, extending his hand to take the money. Louis is going to owe him for the rest of his life for this - 

There’s a sudden white flare that blanks everything out, shock, then pain - searing into the back of his skull, and Zayn feels his head wrenched sideways by his hair, and he’s scrabbling, knocked off balance, nothing to grip onto as the water comes closer to his face and then he’s submerged, crushed inside a stark press of cold water, enveloping him, swamping his nose, his mouth. He kicks and flails his arms but he’s sinking, going nowhere. It’s so dark, blackness everywhere, everything is confusion.

He’s had dreams like this - where he’s just scrambling in black nothingness, iron vices tightening around his chest, panic overwhelming him so there’s nothing, nothing else, nothing except for one loudly clanging thought - I’m drowning. I’m drowning. I’m going to die.

There’s a swirl of bubbles nearby that knocks him sideways and he kicks again manically, uselessly. He feels the drag of water on his clothes, inside his shoes, the heaviness of it. His lungs are screaming but there’s no way, no way up.

And oh fuck, his mum. Saafa. They’re going to be so sad. They need him, he thinks. He can’t leave them. They haven’t seen his tattoos. They don’t even know what he looks like any more and now he’s going to drown and he’ll never get to tell them … tell them…

Harry. He’ll never …

 

Two strong arms hook around his shoulders and suddenly he’s rising, moving up, up, up. He kicks too, feebly, gripping his hands tight onto the arms around him. 

When they surface he can’t believe how loud everything is - voices shouting, a clattering sound like broken glass inside his ears as the water smashes against his head. Everything’s dark still, and confused, and he still can’t breath, but he’s coughing, coughing, retching even as the waves lap over his face and fill his mouth again.

A voice booms in his ear, “Relax Zayn. Stop struggling. You’re OK, son. We’ve got you.”

He feels hands grab at his clothes, the hard surface of the side of the tender smashes into his torso and then … at last … solidity … the boat beneath his body. He’s retching again, coughing seawater onto the deck beneath him. He’s sprawled out, limp and helpless, barely able to lift himself on his elbows, and it feels like the sea still has its claim on him, its cold fingers running over his face, spilling into his mouth, clinging to his skin with his wet clothes.

He coughs until there’s nothing left and he’s left panting on his knees and elbows. At least he’s breathing now again, his lungs aching as he fills them over and again. 

Air. What a beautiful, sweet, precious thing.

He only then realises something warm is pressing against him. He looks sideways and sees Harry is there. He slowly becomes aware that Harry’s arms are around him, his hands are running over his head, brushing his hair back, touching his face, gripping his shoulders and squeezing him into his chest.

He looks up. Harry’s face is a horror show, darkened wide eyes, terror creased into his brow, his breath coming in tight gasps.

Then Zayn’s aware of the boat tilting and Al is hauling himself back on board, turning to sit on the side and reach down to pull Louis up by one arm, draping him over the side so he can scramble the rest of the way himself.

Al, Zayn thinks. It was Al who pulled him up. Al saved his life. Wow.

They all end up collapsed across on the deck, looking at each other, shaky and breathless.

“Fuck Zayn," Louis coughs, "if we’d actually managed to get that money, the first thing I’d spend it on is swimming lessons for you.”

Zayn starts to laugh, slightly hysterically admittedly, but then he gets caught in a coughing fit and has to stop again.

He feels a tight pinch on his arm and turns to Harry again, who’s still kneeling beside him, holding on tightly. He’s shaking all over, his breath coming in tight gasps, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks.

“Harry,” Zayn says quietly to him, wrapping his fingers over Harry’s, “it’s OK. We’re all OK. It’s alright now.”

Harry shakes his head, twisting his fingers so tightly around Zayn’s arm again. His grasp is so tight it hurts.

“No,” he gasps, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Zayn reaches for his face. His voice doesn't sound like himself when he speaks, “Why babe? Everything’s OK. Don’t say that. I’m sorry - it was all on us. But everything’s OK now. Don’t be upset.”

Harry keeps shaking his head. “I couldn’t move. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t move. I tried and I couldn’t. I'm just ... no good ... You were going to die and I just couldn’t …”

Al gets up and crosses the deck. He pulls Harry back from Zayn, guiding him up and helping him up to sit in one of the seats properly.

“Hey, look at me” he pulls Harry’s face towards his, “Didn’t I say I’d take care of you? Didn’t I? Didn’t I say I’d always keep you safe? I will, Harry. Everything will be just fine, as long as you’re with me.”

And Zayn feels like he’s at the bottom of the sea again when he sees Harry crumple and bury his face into Al’s chest, Al’s thick fingers running through his hair.

“Get us back, Louis. Enough for tonight I think.” Al says, his face a mask of controlled rage, over Harry’s head. “We’ll be having a chat about all this.”

Louis looks at Zayn. For once, he has the decency to look ashamed of himself. “Sorry, bro,” he mutters, before hauling himself heavily to his feet, and shuffling over to the steering wheel.

Zayn lets himself collapse flat onto his back as they roar back towards the Calista. If he looks left he sees Harry curled into Al’s arms, still whispering about how sorry he is, so Zayn turns his face to the sky and tries to find something up there he recognises. But it’s all a blur, all a confusion of light he doesn’t think he’ll ever make sense of.


	6. Spetses

“So.” Louis places Harry’s bag lightly on the boards of the jetty and turns back to watch Harry and Niall step off the boat. “You got everything, you think?”

Zayn levers his foot onto a bollard, his arm wrapped around himself to hold his elbow. All around him, the rigging of the sailboats in the marina jangle and creak, and there’s a gentle grumble from the idling engines of the various motor yachts that are berthed along the walkway.

“Yeah,” Harry says, and he picks up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. It knocks him off-balance and he staggers into Niall and it makes the twist of barbed wire encasing Zayn’s heart wrench tighter. It was only a week ago, he thinks. How could it only have been just a week ago, since Harry did that same thing, tripping into him in the dark and telling him he was beautiful?

 

After getting back from the run-in with the drugs guys last night, Al had shuffled Harry away and Zayn found himself being guided along to his cabin by an unusually gentle and soft Louis. Zayn had collapsed into his bunk and slept for 12 hours straight until Louis woke him in the morning, offering a mug of tea and an update.

He’d sat up late with Al it turned out, managed to somehow talk him round to just forgetting the whole thing. Al eventually accepted Louis' explanation that it had been a once-off, an experience no one planned to ever repeat. It probably was to Louis' advantage that, above all else, Al was an unabashed capitalist, and admired any manifestation of tax-exempt entrepreneurship, even if it was drugs-running. They'd ended up chatting about investment opportunities that could offer a quicker and less life-threatening return on Louis' savings and then about Louis' plans for the bar, and Al had offered to put him in touch with property agents he knew in various locations ... finders fee to be agreed.

Zayn just gaped at Louis while he told him all this, gently pressing his fingers over the tenderness on the back of his head where the guy hit him last night. He briefly wondered if he was concussed or dreaming or something because how have events moved on this fast, and how is Al suddenly the good guy, and how come Louis' not mentioning Harry and how sad he was, and why doesn't Zayn seem able to feel anything about all this, except a vague, tired confusion?

But then, Louis squirmed uncomfortably on the edge of Zayn’s bunk and he looked nervously at him.

"So, there's something else," Louis started, the resolute cheeriness he'd been displaying up to now suddenly disappearing, "Al's wife and kids are still coming out. That plan is still going ahead. We've been told to get Harry booked into a hotel in the town."

Zayn just sighs and closes his eyes, until he feels Louis squeezing at his wrist.

"Sorry mate, I know this is all a bit fucked up."

"Yeah," Zayn says, shaking his head, "a bit."

"It's just another few days," Louis tells him. "We'll just get through it and when they all go we'll just go out and party and forget this whole charter-from-hell experience, right?"

Zayn has no idea if Al plans to tell his wife that she’s being replaced, or if Harry’s supposed to stay hidden away like some kind of concubine, or if Al thinks he, his wife and his lover will suddenly end up arm-in-arm, high-stepping along a street together, singing a merry melody, but Zayn can’t do anything about any of it. So he just nods in agreement with Louis. He’ll do what he always does - follow instructions to get the cabins ready and try to ignore the feeling that a plug has been pulled from inside him and something essential is slowly draining away.

 

So that's why he's there, politely assisting with Harry's departure, they way they do for all their guests. After a few minutes, Liam descends the walkway and looks sharply at his watch.

“We’ve got a lot to get done, Zayn,” he tells him. “You’re supposed to be helping Daiyu with the beds, aren’t you?” But his eyes are soft, concerned, and Zayn can’t bear it so he pulls himself up and turns towards the boat.

He hesitates just before putting his foot onboard and looks over his shoulder.

“Bye Harry,” he says. He’s proud that his voice is even and steady.

Harry nods at the ground and says, huskily, “Bye Zayn.”

Zayn marches quickly back onto the boat.

Back to work.

 

///

 

Knowing more than you’re supposed to is like carrying precious crystal everywhere you go, Zayn discovers.

Al’s wife, son and daughter arrived late in the night in a drift of blond hair, expensive perfume and complaints, and since then everyone’s giving them all as much space as they dare, keeping things polite and professional, avoiding their eyes.

Zayn’s back to his usual morning station - breakfast service on the aft deck, trying to keep his heart from bleeding out at the sight of the youngest child, Hugo, swinging his legs at the counter, singing to himself as he colours in the new book he picked up at the airport. Zayn’s suddenly missing his little sister with a pang so intense he feels it in his toes. He’d skyped home the morning after his near-drowning, and it had been overwhelming, trying to act the same as always, when everything inside his chest was splitting open at the thought that this - just talking to them - almost didn’t happen.

Hugo keeps sneaking shy little smiles over at Zayn every now and then, batting down his long eyelashes over his blue eyes every time Zayn smiles back.

Alexandra, the oldest daughter is as determinedly miserable as any 14 year old can be. So far, she’s been glued to her phone, curled up under the canopy at the table, eating salt and vinegar crisps she’s pulled out of her Birkin handbag, ignoring the plate of yoghurt and berries her mother had ordered for her for her breakfast.

Zayn brings over coffee and pastries to Mr and Mrs Frederickson. They’d strolled onto the deck together, late in the morning, and settled in comfortably into the table beside Alexandra, ignoring the way she huffs and twists away sulkily whenever either of them speak to her.

He places the cups and plates on the table in front of them, managing not to spill anything, despite the tremor in his hands, and Al shoots him a remarkably easy grin when he thanks him, passing the cream to his wife just as she looks up for it.

Zayn walks back to the bar, slowly, carefully.

He hears Alexandra behind him announcing she wants to go shopping, and there’s nowhere to go shopping in this shithole, and why can’t they have a yacht in Monaco like normal people, and when he gets back to the bar Hugo slips from his stool to push his completed picture into Zayn’s hands with a grin, before rushing away to throw himself onto his father’s lap, giggling when Al scoops him in close to grumble at how he’s too tall these days and he’s making him feel old, and can he please stop growing up, like a good chap.

Zayn stares at the drawing in his hands until the lines go fuzzy and he’s not sure he can breath anymore.

 

///

 

It doesn’t take long, for the crystal to start cracking.

It’s that same evening when Alexandra slides onto a stool in front of Zayn and props her chin onto her fist.

Zayn blinks in confusion at the aggression of her stare until he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing here, what he’s being paid to do.

“How are you Miss Fredrickson? What can I get you?”

She rolls her eyes and then hesitates, jutting her chin forward, “I’ll have a vodka and orange juice thanks, Zayn.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, challengingly, and he finds his lips are curling into a smile. Despite her sulkiness, he’s started to get fond of her. She’s funny. Earlier, her mother had insisted to both children that they smarten up before going ashore for a walk and Alexandra returned 15 minutes later in ripped shorts, a too-small mini-mouse t-shirt, and pointedly brandishing the hand of her little brother, which now featuring brightly painted fingernails, glaring at their mother like she was about to lead a battalion into battle.

“I can’t serve you alcohol I’m afraid, miss,” Zayn tells her gently, “how about just the OJ?”

She shrugs, pouting, so he just goes ahead and gets it, adding extra ice and popping a cherry and a little umbrella on top, just to see what she’ll say about it. But when he places the drink in front of her, he finds himself freezing.

She’s got a hair tie placed on the counter between them, swirling it around her forefinger. There’s a knot of a few long, dark hairs stuck in its metal catch.

“Oh this?” she says, raising an arched eyebrow at Zayn, when she sees him looking. “I got cold coming in last night and Dad gave me his jacket to wear. I found this in his pocket.”

She picks it up, stretching it out, her eyes measuring one end to the other. “Hmmm… brunette then. Tell me Zayn, how young is she? I bet she’s young. Is she a secretary or something like that? No, a party planner, that’s it, isn’t it? They always have these stupid jobs in marketing and stuff. Is she thin? I bet she’s one of those girls who are really skinny everywhere except for a huge ass and boobs, like a Kardashian, or something.”

Zayn stares rigidly at the taut pull of the elastic tie between her fingertips, unable to pull his eyes away.

“Suppose she’s that type.” Alexandra continues, “Cheap.”

She pulls the tie so hard it pings, flying from her fingers, disappearing somewhere over the deck.

Alexandra picks up her drink and walks away, “Never mind, Zayn.” she says, “I shouldn’t put you on the spot. I’m really not all that interested. It’s just another one in a long parade, after all.”

 

////

 

Hugo has gotten over his shyness and seems utterly enthralled with Zayn, tailing him around the boat as he carries out his tasks, nattering on ceaselessly about his friends, his gymnastic team, 5SOS, the drawings he stacks up on his dresser. He asks a lot of questions too - does Zayn have sisters? How does he cope with three, because one is horrible enough. Does he like 5SOS? Which one is his favourite? Is the boat fun? Where is the favourite place he has been? Who is his best friend? Does he have a dog? Because Hugo has a dog who’s his best friend and he’s gone on his holidays to the kennel and would Zayn like him to draw a picture of him?

Zayn’s lying on the deck of the boat with Hugo, showing him how to use circles and ovals to get basic animal shapes in his drawings when Mrs Fredrickson finds them and clearly spots an opportunity. He asks him if he’d bring the kids on a trip around Spetses island that afternoon, because she’s been promised herself an afternoon in a spa for literally aeons and it would mean the world to her if he’d oblige.

“Absolutely, Mrs Frederickson,” he says, because the answer is always _yes_ , and he smiles his practised smile.

Hugo’s eyes almost pop out of his head with excitement and he beams at Zayn as his mother drifts towards the platform so she can disembark.

“Hugo, darling boy, get that stuff off your nails before you go out in public. Why do you allow your sister to make you look ridiculous? You really are old enough to know better. Do you want everyone to laugh at you? It’s really very, very silly.”

Zayn watches Mrs Frederickson disappear down the steps and when looks down to see Hugo’s head has dipped and his eyes are filling up.

He thinks he recognises the feeling that’s colouring Hugo’s cheeks. He nudges gently into Hugo’s side. “Hey! You know what … I don’t think they look ridiculous at all. I think they look very pretty.”

Hugo looks up in shock. “But boys aren’t supposed to be pretty!” he whispers, blinking back the tears.

“Who says?!” Zayn gasps theatrically, like he’d never heard that before. “I know lots of boys who grew up to be very pretty and everyone loves them because of it.”

Hugo looks at him doubtfully.

“How about,” Zayn suggests, “when we get back, you paint my nails and we’ll see if they look as nice as yours.”

Hugo sniffs, and rubs his nose into the back of his hand. “Really? What colour?” he asks suspiciously.

“Any colour you like. You can pick.” Zayn tells him. “Well, we’ll have to ask Alexandra what we can borrow because I don’t have any nail polish on board with me just at the moment.”

Hugo nods. He’s quiet for a moment and says, “I’m going to ask her now then,” and he whirls around to go find his sister. He crashes into his father’s legs though after a step, and Zayn suddenly realises he was probably there the whole time, watching them carefully.

Zayn flushes and bends to pick up the paper and pencils they’ve scattered across then deck.

“Well, let me see these nails then, Hugo?” he hears Al ask and then … “Very nice indeed. How about I have chat with your mother about letting you keep them painted, if you like. At least for the holiday. OK?”

“Thank you Papa!” Hugo squeals. “Zayn’s bringing us out with this afternoon! And I have to get Alex now!”

He tears off again, shouting over his shoulder, “And I drew you new pictures, Papa! I’m getting very good now, Zayn says.”

“You’re good with him,” Al comments after Hugo’s disappeared. “He’s usually so quiet. It’s good to see him come out of his shell.”

“He’s a lovely kid,” Zayn answers.

“You have a talent with children, I think,” Al says, wandering away while examining one of Hugo’s drawings. "Nice to see someone who can make them shine."

And Zayn hates that it's Al reminding him of this, but he knows it's true. He's always been the one who organise the younger cousins, get them playing together, singing, drawing, scrambling over his carefully designed obstacle courses. He's always been ready to play with the kids who come to stay on board, loves their excitement, their unabashed openness, their willingness to trust his guidance - just like Hugo. He hasn't thought about it in a while, but something shiny and sharp seems to be piercing his insides now that Al's pointed it out.

 

///

 

Alexandra finally brightens up later that afternoon after a gelato and the chance to spend some of her father’s money on tourist tat.

“Alex! Alex!” Hugo tugs at her hand, “We should get Dad a present! To say thank you for taking us on the boat! Let’s get him something!”

Alexandra pouts and shoots a quick glance at Zayn, almost a warning, but she sighs and says, “All right, Hugo, lead the way.”

They find a small boutique with wide doorways opened onto the street. It’s all expensive leather and silver plated whiskey flasks, but the kids seem to think it’s suitable for their mission and browse around. They eventually come to a display of scarves, and are arguing about options there, trailing their fingers through the long strands of silk, when Zayn turns to see Harry, meandering along the street just outside, camera in his hands.

He tries to turn, to move deeper into the store, but Harry’s seen, freezing on the spot, staring in through the doorway.

Zayn feels a shiver cross over his skin when Harry eventually smiles a small, hesitant smile, and steps forward to come into the shop. Just that moment, Zayn feels a tug at his hand and looks down to see Hugo there, holding up a scarf for him to examine.

Zayn can’t help turning to look back at Harry, who’s smile has widened in warm surprise, and when he reaches them he leans down a little to beam at the little boy, saying, “Hiya! Who’s this then, Zayn?”

And it must dawn on him then, because in a flash his smile fades and he shoots a whitefaced expression of horror up at Zayn.

Alexandra appears then, from behind a rack of clothes, a different scarf in her hand. “Zayn, help us! We can’t decide!” And there’s a moment when Zayn sees just how typically teenage she is, how she shoots a look at Harry and blushes at what she sees, hands flying to fix her hair, pressing her lips together to smooth out her gloss.

But, it just takes another split second, and something else flashes in her expression. She stops walking forward and she just stands, staring at Harry, her mouth dropped open.

Zayn sees her eyes lingering over Harry’s dark hair, tied up in a bun at the back of his head, and Zayn turns to Harry, trying to catch his eyes, begging him silently - go away, Harry, go away, you have to go away - and then suddenly Alexandra is striding forward, holding up the scarf in her hand, reaching for the one in Hugo’s hand too.

“So,” she says, blinking slowly, “you’re probably just the right person to ask. Which one do you think my father will like best?”

The colour is draining from Harry’s face, his eyes move from Alexandra to Zayn to Hugo, to the fucking scarves.

Zayn listens to Alexandra take a shaky breath.

“Well,” she says to Zayn, “I was right that they’d be younger anyway, if nothing else, Dad’s fairly consistent about that one.” And she opens her mouth again as if she’s going to say something else, but a small noise catches in her throat and he feels the trembling in her limbs as she stands closer to him. He can feel her anger throbbing through her, her self-disgust at having let any emotion show.

Hugo’s looking between them, a frown furrowing her forehead, and he tugs on Zayn’s hand to ask, “What?”

And then Harry’s turning, crashing into a display of watches in his hurry, muttering “Sorry, I’m sorry,” as he sets it upright and backs away.

“What are you sorry for exactly?” Alexandra calls after him, but her voice cracks mid-way through and it brings Harry to a stop. Zayn knows he’s heard it, the sob she’s trying so hard, so bravely to keep inside.

Hugo’s expression turns to fear as he gapes, open mouthed, at his sister. “Alex,” he says in a small voice, “What’s wrong?”

Zayn steps up, pulling Hugo along, and guiding Alexandra forward with a hand on the centre of her back.

“Come on,” he says gently, “let’s go.”

He glances back through the doorway, after they step outside, wanting so badly to catch Harry’s eye, to communicate some of what he’s feeling for him. But Harry’s not looking in his direction, he’s just standing, frozen, staring at the two abandoned scarves where they’ve fallen to the floor.

 

///

 

Zayn has no idea how Louis managed it, but he took one look at Zayn’s face when he arrived back to the marina with the kids, and pulled him aside by the elbow, whispering, “We’re going clubbing tonight. No excuses.” And an hour later, after Zayn had checked the kids were OK and settled in front of a movie with bowls of ice-cream, Louis had marched Liam over and stood beside him pulling faces while Liam pleaded them to make sure they were both back and fully functional by 9 am next morning. Or at least 10, at the very latest.

“There’s just been too much drama this charter, Zayn. We’ve got to go hard tonight or else we’ll go mental,” Louis tells Zayn as they leave the boat with overnight bags slung over their shoulders. There’s a backpacker hostel a few streets back from the marina where they were able to score a room for the night, and they quickly changed out of their uniforms, passing a blunt back and forth, before making their way back to the quayside, wandering in and out of the bars until Zayn’s feeling an easy buzz. Almost enough for him to ignore the leaden lump in his stomach.

There are only two or three places in Spetses that stay open late enough to be called nightclubs, so when they run into a group of American girls they’d already chatted with briefly in the hostel lobby, Louis make a big play of offering to show them around.

The girls had taken the ferry from Athens for a few nights on the islands, so they could check “island-hopping in Greece” from their list of to-dos and they’re all sun bleached hair and long, bare legs and Zayn starts thinking it’s just what he needs, those soft smiles and trailing glances.

But then, they when they enter the nightclub, and there’s lanky, round-shoulder form standing there in a dark corner and Zayn freezes, and he knows he was wrong about that.

He searches out Louis, but he’s too far gone, giddy and laughing loudly, trying to convince one of the girls to do a body shot with him.

Another of the girls - Stacey? Tracey? - is dancing close to Zayn, angling into him, her hips moving against his when she revolves, smiling over her shoulder. She’s tall and blond and confident, and exactly his type so he smiles back and does his best to move with her, but he can’t stop himself from looking over towards Harry, squinting against the lasers that have suddenly started pumping from a stage Zayn hadn’t even noticed was there.

He spots him again, finally, now on the dance floor. There’s a guy pressed against him, into his back, hands firm on his hips and Harry’s head is lolling to the side as the guy nuzzles his neck.

A thunder cloud breaks inside Zayn’s chest and he’s striding across the dance floor, and it takes forever, too many people in his way, stepping on his feet, waving arms around to the beat of the music and he’s losing patience as he tries to dodge them all but sudden he’s there, Harry’s right there in front of him, rolling his head up and blinking hazily at Zayn.

It seems to take him a few moments to recognise him but then, eventually, he takes a step, detaching himself from the guy who’d been draped over him only moments before, pushing his hands away when they reach for his hips again.

Lights flash everywhere and the floor’s not staying steady under Zayn’s feet, heaving like the boat on a swell. And Zayn wonders if it’s the same for Harry, if he’s got his sea legs now, and he reaches forward, looping a finger into Harry’s belt, pulling him close. His heart is so loud in his ears now he can’t hear the music any more. He leans in to Harry, putting his mouth close to his ear, because he wants to ask. And he’s got something he needs to tell him, something private and important, but when he parts his lips he can’t remember what it is, and he leans back again, swallowing hard when Harry turns his face and looks into his eyes.

Harry stumbles slightly and rights himself by putting his hands on Zayn’s biceps. He curls around Zayn, moving his face close. And then his mouth is over Harry’s ear, just like Zayn had tried minutes before. His breath is hot and damp and his voice is deeper than ever when he says huskily, “We should just fuck and get it over with, Zayn. Come back to the hotel with me. Come back with me.”

And Zayn can’t breath for a moment as his dick gets aching hard inside his jeans, and there’s a tiny voice inside him telling him that this isn’t right, and that wasn’t it, that wasn’t what he wanted to ask.

Harry smirks, bleary and unsteady, and leans in again, his lips touch Zayn’s neck, barely, and then he’s speaking again into Zayn’s ear, “You can do whatever you want with me, Zayn.”

And then Zayn’s wrist is inside Harry’s grip and he’s following him helplessly as they manouever a path through the throbbing crowd to the exit doors.

 

///

 

They clatter through the hotel room door, stumbling over each other, Harry laughing into Zayn’s chest when he catches him from falling. Zayn glances into the room behind them, and sees an expanse of white linen, a huge bed, lillies on a glass coffee table, gauzy curtains drifting lightly by an open window. He has to close his eyes again when Harry presses a run of giggling, licky kisses up his neck and underneath his jaw, leaning his weight against him until he’s knocked them both off-balance again and Zayn’s back hits into the wall.

Zayn tries to steady them, planting his feet apart, either side of Harry, but the position just makes him more aware of the tight pressure of his jeans against his erection. He grabs onto Harry’s belt to pull him in by the waist, brings their crotches together, then he slides his hands around Harry’s arse to squeeze at the swell of firm muscle under denim.

“Huh-ummph,” Harry exhales wetly onto Zayn’s skin, grinding into him.

Zayn grins and pulls his head back as far as the wall behind him will allow. Harry’s face is still pressed into his neck, so he reaches to finger-comb Harry’s hair back, tucking it behind his ear, stroking his thumb over his cheek and then tilting Harry’s head so they can see each other properly.

Zayn’s breath actually catches in his throat at the sight of Harry face now. He’s beautiful, always, but like this … a blush flooding his cheeks, eyes dark and gleaming, a sheen over his skin, lips glossy and plumped up … Zayn feels a tremor run through him until its actually vibrating in his kneecaps.

He holds Harry like that, just looking at him, not wanting to move in case it breaks whatever spell has thrown this glamour over them. And he doesn't think this is just the weed and alcohol because Harry’s gazing back at him like he sees it too, sweeping his eyes over Zayn’s face, from his lips to his eyes and back again.

He’s leaning in to catch his kiss before Zayn even realises that he’s moving to deliver it, and then Harry’s mouth is hot against his, their lips sliding together. Zayn holds Harry’s face gently, drawing his fingertips down over his cheek, runs his thumb across Harry’s bottom lip.

Before placing another careful kiss to Harry’s lips, Zayn leans back to glance up into his eyes, checking, touching the pad of his thumb now to Harry’s chin, his other hand stroking his soft curls back from his temple. He rolls his body into Harry’s, holding him fixed in his gaze, feeling like he never wants to look anywhere else except into these wide green eyes.

Harry blinks and suddenly looks away, sucking in a sharp gasp like something’s pinched him.

“You OK?” Zayn whispers.

Harry nods quickly, focusing at a spot on the wall somewhere behind him.

Zayn drops his hands to squeeze at Harry’s shoulders reassuringly. 

"Are we too wasted for this?" He asks, dipping his head to try to catch Harry’s gaze again, but Harry twists his head away, offering his neck to Zayn’s lips instead.

Zayn kisses him there briefly before pushing off against the wall, slowly walking Harry backwards towards the bed, rubbing small circles over his back with one hand, the other on the back of his neck, guiding him carefully.

“What do you like?” Harry asks huskily, when they drift to a stop, still looking over Zayn’s shoulder, “I’ll do whatever you want. What do you want to do?”

Zayn leans in to kiss Harry’s face again.

“Just wanna be with you, babe,” he tells him in a quiet murmur, trailing kisses now along Harry’s jaw, down the side of his neck. “I just want this - kissing you, just wanna touch you.”

Harry seems to freeze for a second, then pulls away completely, turning around and walking the rest of the distance to the bed, stripping off his shirt as he moves.

Zayn blinks for a moment, surprised, but Harry’s kicking out of his boots, sliding his jeans and pants down his legs, straightening up again, and his long naked back draws Zayn in like a magnet, and before he knows it, his own shirt’s on the floor, and he’s got his hands on Harry, pulling him against his chest, kissing the back of his neck.

Harry wriggles free, laughing a strange little laugh that Zayn’s not heard before. Zayn steps back and watches Harry sink down to sit on the bed. He’s spread his legs and his dick is huge and flushed and hard up against his stomach. Zayn swallows when Harry tugs at the front of his jeans to bring him forward a little, deftly unbuttoning him and reaching in to take a firm grip of Zayn’s own erection.

He’s got an odd little frown furrowing his forehead that’s making Zayn smile at its seriousness, but then Zayn’s gasping at the sensation of Harry’s fingers slipping down along his dick.

Zayn wants to see those eyes again, to see Harry smile instead of frown, so he reaches for his chin to tilt his face up. He so badly needs to see Harry’s eyes, it feels like. He might drown in the wanting if he can’t.

Harry shakes off his hand though and instead leans forward, parting his lips, and Zayn’s knees almost buckle at their sudden slide along his length, the heat that envelopes him.

“Oh! Shit!” he pants, his fingers dig into the muscle of Harry’s shoulders as he grips hard to stay upright. Harry moans a little in response, taking Zayn deeper, grabbing his hips and rocking him forward into his mouth. Zayn hits the back of Harry’s throat more forcefully than he intended and Harry starts gagging around him. Zayn pulls back quickly.

“Babe! Sorry! C’mere,” he leans down, hands either side of Harry’s neck, lifting back the sweaty mess of curls that are becoming plastered to his skin. He presses a quick kiss to his forehead, smiling at him.

Harry won’t look up.

Instead he flips around to crawl across the bed on his hands and knees. Zayn watches as Harry reaches for a bottle of lube that’s on the bedside locker. He upends it over his fingers and then reaches around behind him to part the cheeks of his ass. Zayn bites his lip silently as Harry’s lubed fore-fingers slip up inside himself. He hears him hiss and gasp as he twists his wrist, inserting a third finger so abruptly Zayn grimaces.

Zayn can’t help reaching forward to lightly wrap his fingertips around Harry’s wrist, slowing him. Zayn runs his other hand up along Harry’s spine, kneading his shoulder a little while, before trailing two forefingers back down slowly over each vertebra. He shuffles onto his knees on the mattress, leaning over Harry’s back, pressing his lips over the scratches still marked there.

Harry’s shaking all over, he realises.

“Babe,” he whispers, drawing his open lips over Harry’s shoulder blade, tasting the salt of his sweat, “we can slow it down. Let's just ... go slower ... It's OK.”

He feels Harry shudder beneath him so he kisses along his shoulder, into the side of his neck. Harry jerks forward again, wrenching his wrist free from Zayn, and he steadies himself on his hands and knees, arching his hips up, dropping his head.

Zayn’s kneeling between Harry’s feet, but it all feels like they’re very far away from each other. He’s not sure what’s happening, where Harry’s gone.

Zayn watches Harry’s back heave, ribs expand and contract, as he pants, his breath catching in his throat shakily.

“Come on,” he huffs, “Zayn, fuck … Come on.” The pleading in his voice is irresistible, and Zayn's not sure but he moves in, gripping Harry’s waist between his two hands, stroking his thumbs along his hipbones. Harry whimpers and he’s still shaking as Zayn runs his fingers lightly down along the front of his hips, then back up along Harry’s ribs, drifting over his nipples and then grasping around the front of his shoulders so he can pull Harry up from the bed, close into him, Zayn’s dick leaving a damp trail where it’s pressing into the small of Harry’s back.

Zayn shuffles on his knees even closer, his thighs up against Harry’s bum. He reaches for the side of Harry’s face, gently guiding him for another kiss. He just wants him close, to look at him.

“For fuck's sake, stop it!” Harry wriggles free from Zayn’s hands, shuffling away. “It’s just supposed to be a fuck, Zayn. Just fuck me.”

Zayn’s sits back on his heels, wordlessly watching Harry twist around to fling himself onto his back. He gapes as Harry pulls his knees up and spread his legs wider.

“Like, just, come on,” he pants, looking blankly upwards, hooking his hands onto the back of his thighs to lift his feet off the bed, holding his legs up and apart for Zayn.

“Harry, I…” Zayn tries, his voice only a whisper.

There’s a moment where everything’s still and Zayn feels the each pulse of blood moving hotly along his veins. He feels the shake in his breath, the flush in his face, the cold weight of something leaden drop in his stomach.

The moment stretches out like an elastic band on the brink, lengthening, thinning.

Harry’s legs eventually flop down flat onto the bed, either side of where Zayn is sitting back on his haunches. He barely even hard anymore Zayn is noticing. He’s lying flat, his chest heaving with each breath, his eyes fixed high onto some point on the ceiling.

Zayn reaches his hand down to rest it lightly on Harry’s shin where it lays beside him.

“Ha-” he begins, but Harry’s suddenly rolling over, getting onto his feet and walking to where he abandoned his clothes. He’s shuffling back into his jeans, not bothering with underwear, one leg, then the other. Zayn watches him button up the crotch and stretch his long torso back down to pick up his t-shirt and ram it down over his head.

“I think I’m gonna go get shitfaced, Zayn,” Harry’s saying, his voice a lower register than Zayn’s heard before. “I just wanna party, OK? I don’t need any heavy shit.”

Zayn slides along the bed until he’s sitting with his feet planted flat on the floor. “OK?” he answers. It comes out like a question.

Harry doesn’t look at him as he walks a few steps to pick up his wallet where it’s fallen on the floor. He flips it open and checks it, then walks over the bedside locker and opens the drawer. He pulls a couple of condoms out of a box there and slips them inside the wallet, then buries it in his back pocket.

He pauses at the dresser, looking into the mirror and flicking his fingers into his hair.

“I mean, you should come. You wanna get wrecked? Let’s do it.” Harry’s saying evenly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, keeping his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the mirror across from them.

Zayn feels like he's been punched in the face. He rests his hands on his knees, trying to draw a few steadying breaths.

“It’s just,” Harry’s saying, straightening up and running his thumbs under his waistband to adjust his jeans on his hips, “this was probably a bad idea. I mean, we’re friends right? We’re better as friends.”

Zayn watches Harry cross the room again to the dressing table, reach for a bottle of cologne, squirting a light spray onto his wrists. “Yeah”, he manages to say eventually, his voice coming out low, a murmur, “we’re friends.”

Harry finally turns around and looks at him, a fierce smile playing over his lips, “That’s what I thought,” he says, “We shouldn’t fuck up a friendship just ‘cos we’re both a bit horny, right?”

Zayn tries to hold his gaze, but there’s something too hard and bright in it. It makes his heart beat too quickly, and he finds his eyes drifting back down over the floor. “Um, OK,” he says.

“So… you coming out or what?” Harry asks, tapping the side of his thigh lightly, breathing fast, “I mean, if you want to crash here, that’s cool. But I’m going to hit that bar again. That guy was hot. But it’s like, whatever. If you’re tired, just crash here. I probably won’t be back anytime soon, anyway.”

 

Zayn gets that feeling then - he’s got it before on rare occasions - like he’s being hit sideways by a truck, everything swirled into a blur, solidity removed, a dizzying buzz in his ears.

It’s a thing that’s happened before in arguments. It doesn’t happen often.

Only when he gets really, really angry.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Zayn’s on his feet and he doesn’t even care that he’s naked as he rears up on Harry, marching towards him. He wants to grab him and shake him hard, until he’s as limp as a ragdoll in Zayn’s hands, but instead he’s shouting, spitting fragments of sentences, just splinters of the whirling thoughts in his mind.

“What the fuck, Harry? What’s wrong with you? You don’t get to do this. Treat me like … What’s going on here, Harry? This wasn’t just a _fuck_ and you know it. There’s something- there’s something between us and I don’t get you … What the fuck are you doing?”

And to his shock, Harry rears back at him, stepping forward til his face is right up in Zayn’s, eyes suddenly flaring bright.

“What Zayn - you think I like you? You think you like me? You think that’s special? You want a nice, slow fuck that's special, just for you? 'Cos I can do that Zayn. I can do anything you like! That’s just what I do! I can make people like me. There’s nothing between us. It’s been what - a week? You think it’s different? You like how I look and how I smile at you but if you think that’s something new for me well, sorry, dude, it isn’t. I can make anyone like me enough to fuck me.”

Zayn’s fist clench, and he just stares back at Harry. He doesn’t want to hit him, he doesn’t, but he wants to break something, smash up whatever’s going to release them both from this fucking spiders web of delirium.

Harry laughs, shaking his head, “No. Fuck’s sake Zayn. You don’t like me. Not really. Not if you knew me. You don’t know anything about me.”

And that.

That’s just wrong. Zayn shakes his head, looking upwards exasperation making him actually tug at his own hair then.

“What then?!” Harry’s yelling. “Tell me! Tell me all the things you think you know about me after our what … five conversations? You don’t know the first thing -

"I know you."

Zayn's throat is so choked he can barely croak the words out.

Harry starts to roll his eyes.

"I do," Zayn manages to get out, before Harry speaks. "I know you're acting like this because you're upset. And maybe a bit drunk, but you're only drunk because you're upset. Not that it makes it OK, by the way. But this, tonight, this isn't ... "

Zayn swallows hard. "This isn't really you, I know it. I think that… well … your heart’s really big and I know that sometimes that makes you feel like you’re drowning because of how much you just ... _feel_. And when you get like that is when you drink. And you’ve been drinking a lot, and you can’t seem to stop, and it’s starting to scare you.”

He sees Harry press his lips tight.

In a beat something shifts, and settles, like the ticking sands under an ebbing tide. Zayn feels his temper retreat a little, as quickly as it came on.

And he's not sure why exactly, but he keeps talking.

"Fuck this, Harry, I know you. I do. Like, I know you think about families a lot. I don’t know what it is, but you stare at them - when we were in Poros or when the Huxley's were aboard - you just stared like they’re pieces of puzzles and you’re working out how they fit together. And they make you smile, every time, even when its just the kids slapping each other around, so I just can’t work out how you think breaking up a family to move in with Al is ever going to bring you anything but agony but that’s your choice, I guess.”

Harry scowls. Zayn hears the breath heave out of his lungs in a grunt, like he’s been punched. He shakes his head slowly.

Zayn grits his teeth and continues, “I know more about you. I know you take photographs.”

Harry huffs a pained, fake little laugh.

“No,” Zayn rushes, “I mean, in your mind, when you don’t have your camera with you. You see things, stuff that’s going on that’s everyone’s missing, and you stop and you choose your angle and you photograph it, so you’ll remember. So. There you go. That's another thing.”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again. After another few moments pass, he asks in a whisper, "What else?"

“I know ... I know you hate symmetry,” Zayn says flailing for a second before he remembers, “because you always rearrange anything that’s lined up too neatly, like the ornaments and the toiletries on the boat. And that’s been really annoying because we’ve got templates we have to follow Harry and every day we’ve got to go and put them all back and you’ve been a right pain.”

And this time, Zayn sees something softening in Harry’s eyes when he looks up at Zayn.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s OK,” Zayn answers quickly. 

“And yeah, you’re good at getting people to like you. Not just for sex, but really like you. Like, all the crew they all loved you, straight off. And for some reason, you think that’s a character flaw, when it’s just you being kind and nice and funny, and that’s a good thing, Harry. And … I like you. And maybe that doesn’t make me special or different to you, but it’s different for me ‘cos - I don’t actually like that many people, you know? There’s only about, like, seven … eight people in the whole world I can stand to spend time with, apart from my family. And even they drive me crazy a lot of the time.”

And Zayn risks a small smile in Harry’s direction, and his heart thuds when Harry smiles gently back at him, his eyes still careful and watchful.

“But, yeah, maybe there’s loads I don’t know. And if you really don’t want me to find out, in case there’s something I won’t like, well that’s OK, I guess. That’s fine,” Zayn runs his hands through his hair again, before letting them flop to his sides. He’s suddenly exhausted. “Go back to the club or to Al or go somewhere new, if that’s what you want Harry, but … I think that’s stupid. I think even if I know everything, even all the parts you don't want me to know, there’ll still be enough of you I like to tip the balance in your favour.”

Harry slumps a little, tilting onto one hip. He scowls again at the floor, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before saying, “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so much all at once, Zayn.”

They’re both still breathing heavily, both shaky with emotion. But after Harry dips his head, a hint of a smile creeps gradually over his face.

“And,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “despite you being naked the whole time I didn’t get distracted even once.”

He’s trying to grin then, and Zayn finds it impossible to stop the reluctant smile spreading across his face too. He steps away and picks his clothes up from the floor. The room is quiet as he dresses, apart from the clink of this belt buckle closing around his hips, the rustle of bedcovers when he sits to pull on his boots.

“Don’t” Harry says. And Zayn looks up. “Don’t go.”

Harry has backed away so he’s leaning against the wall inside the door. He sinks down until he’s sitting on the floor, opposite Zayn, far away but watching him closely.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been freaking out.”

Zayn rests his elbows on his knees. “I know.”

"I think ... I'm messed up Zayn, I'm ... just ... fucking messed up."

And Zayn doesn't say anything this time after Harry drifts to a halt, because answering _no shit_ like he's tempted to, wouldn't be very helpful he suspects.

“Al told you about it, didn’t he?" Harry asks quietly then, "About Stephen?”

“The lecturer guy? Yeah. I’m sorry about it all, Harry. It’s so shit.”

Harry nods slowly. He puts his hands on his kneecaps.

“He wasn’t very nice to me, Zayn. It wasn’t good. He really got into my head.”

Zayn waits. Harry’s voice goes even quieter but he's scared if he moves closer Harry might just try to leave again.

“I was different, before. Before him. I made loads of friends at Uni, straight off, everything was easy. But he … I ended up not wanting to be around anyone. I just stayed in the library all the time. It was the only place he wouldn’t bother me. I didn’t go out any more because I was afraid he’d find out where I was. He used to sit in his car outside and check who I was with, what time I got in and then demand explanations, call me a whore, tell me I needed to make it up to him. It was so exhausting. So, I just studied all the fucking time. I went from the library to lectures to home. That was it. That’s how I got all those good grades. I literally did nothing else.”

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes then, for a second, before running his fingers into his hair, tugging once, twice then looking over at Zayn again.

“You asked me if I was OK, do you remember? That night when I hurt my face? Like, you didn’t even know me and you offered to buy me a fucking plane ticket. I was really shocked, Zayn, because all those weeks and weeks I was on my own, no one, none of those people I made friends with in first term, no one asked me that. Nobody asked if I was OK. They were mad at me. For fucking a lecturer and getting good grades in payment. That’s what they thought about me. I couldn’t tell any of them how scared I was.”

Zayn chews his bottom lip. He wants to hunt down these asshole classmates of Harry’s and fuck them up Katniss-style.

“D’you know the first thing I thought when I heard he’d died?” Harry’s voice drops to a whisper, barely audible across the room. Zayn is breathing as shallowly as he can through his open mouth, just to make out what he’s saying.

“I thought, _Good. Thank fuck for that._ I was so relieved. That’s what I thought.”

Harry looks up then and Zayn sees how full his eyes are.

“That wasn’t very nice of me, now was it, Zayn?”

The tears spill over, trailing down Harry’s cheeks.

“When you nearly died, the other night, it felt like that was my punishment. That’s what I get, for being such a terrible person.”

“No, Harry -” Zayn starts, but Harry cuts him off.

"I'm so sorry, Zayn. I should have been the one to help you. But I just ..."

Zayn shakes his head, reaching his hand out, "That was just a mad few minutes Harry. It ended up OK, in the end. Don't think about what might have happened. None of it was because of you -"

“I don’t want him to have won." Harry gasps as he speaks, his head dipping down, "I don’t want him to have changed me. I go out and I get fucked up and I don’t care who I’m with because all the time, he’s there, in my head, telling me I'm not supposed to and I shouldn’t touch anyone else and I just belong to him and ... _fuck him_! I’ll let the whole world fuck me and mark me before he gets to win. Fuck him, Zayn. It’s not fair. He doesn’t get to win. He doesn’t get to just fucking die and live in my head forever and get to win.”

“So that's me, Zayn. Do you still like me?” he asks, his voice breaking. “Do you still think I’m a nice person?”

Zayn’s over in front of him straight away, kneeling before him and reaching to hold him, but Harry grabs his hands to push him away, his face crumpling up as more tears escape.

“You can’t like me now, you can’t. I’m fucked-up and I ruin everything. I’m not a nice person. I’m not.”

“Harry, no. You can’t think that’s true.” Zayn pleads. Harry’s hands are still in his, and he just grips them tight, “no, please don’t think that.”

Harry shakes his head, and he pulls his hands out of Zayn grasp, wrapping up his legs instead, dipping his forehead onto his knees.

Zayn looks at him helplessly. He doesn’t know how to make it OK, how to comfort him.

He just moves to settle on the floor beside him, legs crossed, waiting, while Harry sits quietly beside him, his breathing gradually slowing, impatiently swiping away a silent tear every now and then.

Eventually, Harry sit up a bit straighter, relaxing his grip on his legs and stretching them out on the floor in front of them.

“I’m sorry,” he says and shakes his head when Zayn starts to speak, “I’m sorry for saying it’s not different with you.”

He looks over at him and whispers. “Of course it is. Of course, it’s different with you.”

He lets Zayn pull him in then, sinks into his chest, and Zayn wraps his arms around him and holds him, pressing his head into his chest so he’ll hear Zayn’s heart beat.

 

“It's OK, I’m OK now.” Harry had quickly stifled his tears, but he stayed curled up for a long time after, a fist clenching into the material of Zayn’s shirt. He’s rubbing at his eyes now, and looking around the elegant bedroom.

“What am I even doing here? This isn't me. Why am I doing this? I don’t want to stay here. I need to get out of here.”

Zayn nods quickly, anything to stifle that rising tone of hysteria in Harry's voice. “I’ve got a place, for tonight. We can go there.”

 

They’re walking along through quiet, cobbled laneways soon after. All Harry’s stuff is packed up into his bag and Zayn’s insisted on carrying it as he leads the way back to the hostel. Harry lets him hold his hand and it’s warm and feels like being believed.

There’s the detrius of party in the common room - just a handful of people sitting around, all tangled up together, talking nonsense on the kind of deep themes that only emerge in the dying embers of a party, so Zayn swerves Harry straight up the stairs, into the small twin room he’d changed in earlier with Louis, a lifetime ago.

There’s a small refrigerator whining in the corner and Zayn’s relieved to find water there, handing a bottle to Harry. His head’s aching and the alcohol earlier in the evening has left his mouth feeling furry and parched.

After gulping back most of the bottle, Harry pulls off his jeans and shirt and slips into one of the narrow beds. Zayn’s not sure if the sheets are fresh or who’s last been there but Harry looks so tired, eyes all reddened and puffy, he just switches off the light and slides into the opposite bed.

Zayn gives up trying to ignore the tossing and turning coming from Harry’s side of the room after a while. “Hey,” he says into the darkness, “my nan always said to try to count up in sevens, as far as I could, when I couldn’t sleep?”

Harry rolls over so he’s facing Zayn. Zayn can just about make out the glimmer in his eyes in the dimness. “What, too good to count sheep like normal people?” he whispers back and then Zayn hears him huff a small laugh at his weak attempt at a joke.

Zayn rolls onto his side too and stretches his hand out over the gap between the two beds, “Actually Harry, my grandparents were sheep farmers as it happens. I've spent a lot of time counting sheep, I'll have you know.”

Harry laughs gently again, “Aw, poor Zayn. Child labour. Terrible.”

Harry reaches over until their fingers are entwined. A low murmur of voices and music emanates through the floorboards. Zayn’s not sure either of them are going to get any sleep.

“You want to get in here with me?”

Harry nods and then he’s sliding in close to Zayn straight away, enveloping Zayn with his scent of coconut shampoo, that expensive woodsy cologne, and underneath that, faintly, the slightly metalic tang of sweat and, maybe, tears.

He smiles, nuzzles his nose against Zayn’s in an eskimo kiss, then presses his lips lightly against his chin before sliding his head back on the pillow to look at Zayn’s face.

“I’m probably going to go tomorrow, Zayn,” he whispers then. “I've been thinking I should probably be on my own for a bit. I need to work it all out, why it happened, why I keep wanting other people to fill in the holes in me.”

Zayn caresses Harry’s face into his palm, running his thumb over his cheekbone. “OK, babe. That’s OK.” He closes his eyes, because it’s too hard to smile at Harry. He knows he's right. That doesn't stop it hurting. Then he feels Harry’s lips lightly touch against his closed eyelids.

“Zayn …”

Zayn opens his eyes again and Harry’s are shining there, right at him.

“I’m sorry about before. I got scared, but ... can we…? Just tonight. I do want to be with you. Just ... before I go?”

It’s a thousand feelings too many, a summer thundercloud spilling over, and Zayn nods and moves onto his back without opening his eyes.

////

Harry’s face looks like it belongs in a renaissance painting - one of those _passion of the saints_ depictions - all rolling eyes and rose petal lips. His fingers are spread wide, pressing onto Zayn’s chest as he rides him, his hair tumbling messily over his face, sweat glistening over his skin in the dark.

Zayn’s biting his lip, watching him rock over him, too fucking beautiful for the world. His head’s swimming at the tight heat of being inside him but trying to hold back, to not overwhelm Harry or whatever it was that he did wrong last time. He’s got his hands clamped onto Harry’s thighs, and he’s rising his hips to meet Harry when he jolts down onto him.

Harry’s head falls back, mouth open, and Zayn sees he’s chasing something that’s not quite there and he heaves himself up, keeping a hand on Harry’s shoulder as he manoevers them around to switch so that he’s on his knees and Harry’s underneath him. He reaches for Harry’s dick and thumbs the head until Harry’s gasping and arching up to fit his mouth over Zayn’s.

Zayn feels the tremor in Harry lips, feels it in the shake of his breath against his face. There’s a catch in Harry’s throat on each breath as Zayn thrusts into him and Zayn’s suddenly gets scared he’s hurting him and he’s just not saying anything, like before.

“This OK?” Zayn asks, slowing down, “Harry, babe? You OK?”

Harry opens his eyes and looks at Zayn, a question in his expression. He bites his lip and slides off Zayn’s dick, moving around onto his knees, and his mouth moves down Zayn’s body until he’s kissing his stomach and then he pulls the condom off and runs his mouth up and down Zayn’s hard dick, while Zayn drags his fingers through his hair, petting him softly, until he remembers again and takes his hands away, in case that's too much for Harry, touching his own chest instead.

Harry sucks him deeper, pawing at his own erection, curling over so he can take Zayn deeper, opening his throat to swallow around him, tongue pressing in and lips circling wet and tight each time he pulls back. Zayn’s getting close and doesn’t want to come yet, not yet, so he pulls back.

Harry looks up at him, hair over his gleaming eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers throatily, “why don’t you want to fuck me?”

“I do, I really do, Harry,” Zayn whispers back, running his fingers to pet his hair back.

Harry sits up, nodding. He’s trembling all over again and Zayn frowns, running a hand along his arm.

“I just … You’re shaking. Are you sure you’re OK with … all this?”

“Yeah, I … I don’t know why this happens when I’m with you, Zayn. It’s only ever happened with you. It’s just you. Maybe … it's because it's ... a lot ...”

Zayn squeezes his elbow. It was supposed to be reassuring but feels stupidly formal, like they’re stopping to shake hands mid-way through, and Harry laughs a little, which makes Zayn smile and lean in to kiss him.

“I want to though, I promise Zayn,” Harry tells him, leaning his forehead against Zayn’s.

“You can trust me,” Zayn whispers to him. But he’s surprised when Harry pulls back and puts his hands on his shoulders, seeking his eyes.

“You can trust me, too,” Harry says.

And Zayn realises only then, that he’s afraid too, afraid of all this. 

"I promise you won't break me, Zayn," Harry whispers, "I promise it's OK." 

He looks into Harry's eyes and what he sees there jolts through him like an electric shock. It's OK. That's what's there, in those wide green eyes. That they can do this and it's OK.

He moves to the side of the bed and reaches for a fresh condom and more lube, passing the water to Harry because the room’s so hot and if he’s dizzy he’s guessing Harry is too, and when he’s ready he gets back on his knees between Harry’s legs, links his hands behind the small of his back to lift him up so he can slide back into him.

Harry’s up on Zayn’s thighs, calves wrapping over his hips and he’s hovering over the mattress, fists crumpling the sheets as he holds himself up on rigid arms. They kiss as Zayn thrusts into him, Harry’s dick smearing pre-come onto his chest with each movement.

Zayn rocks into him and he’s getting it right this time, finally, Harry moaning in what’s almost a tone of relief, as Zayn grips his ass, bringing him down on his dick as his hips jerk forwards. Their mouths open to lick slack, messy kisses against each other, missing their mouths sometimes and pressing against each other’s faces, chins, necks. Harry’s elbows give way eventually, and he collapses onto the flat of his back, his heels still digging hard into Zayn’s back.

Zayn shuffles forward, folding Harry so his feet link behind Zayn and he worms his fingers in underneath Harry’s hips lifting him from the mattress so he can help him angle up again, to meet his thrusts as his rhythm speeds up and he bucks into him, faster and faster, until Harry’s grunting with each thrust and he’s biting down on the back of his own hand.

Zayn’s getting so close again, barely able to catch his breath and he goes harder, moving further up on his knees, taking Harry with him so his hips are curled up from the mattress completely. Harry’s all het up and panting, and Zayn licks his palm a few times, eyes fixed on Harry’s dilated pupils and he wraps his hand over Harry’s and they bring him off together after only a couple of tugs, his body arching and a moan spilling out of him as he pulses wet stickiness over their fingers.

Zayn starts to shudder then, gasping as his orgasm wracks through him and he’s slumping over Harry when he’s through, aftershocks shivering through him. He pulls out as gently as he can, Harry’s breath catching as they untangle their limbs and Zayn deals with the condom quickly before coming back to kiss.

Zayn gets tissues to mop most of the mess, but they’re both slick and sweaty all over so it's not exactly effective, and Harry mutters, “Guess we should shower,” before they both slump back onto the mattress, heavy limbed and useless. The last thing Zayn remembers is Harry twisting around so he’s pressing his face onto Zayn’s shoulder, slinging his arm loosely over Zayn’s waist. “Sorry, know it’s too hot,” he murmurs, and wriggles a leg between Zayn’s so they’re even more sweatily entwined.

Zayn smiles weakly, too wiped out to laugh, and he strokes Harry’s hair back a couple of times, before turning his face to Harry’s, drifting off with his lips tasting the sweat of his forehead.

 

///

 

Backpacker hostels are noisy places anyway, people coming and going at all hours, so the sound of a door opening only vaguely registers with Zayn, before the thump of soft collisions and whispered curses penetrates the fog of his half-slumber.

“Well, isn’t this a beautiful disaster, if ever there was one.”

Louis’ voice brings Zayn to alertness. He struggles to blink his eyes open, slowly become aware that the reason he’s not able to move is because of the very hot, very sweaty body weighing heavily down on top of his.

He manages to crack open one eye, and swivels it around until he sees Louis, cross-legged, fingers templed at his chin on the opposite bed.

Harry emits a little whimper and rolls over, off Zayn’s chest and onto his other side, but somehow he manages to bring Zayn’s arm around with him so they’re spooning, his hand tight around Zayn's, his lips pressed into Zayn’s fingers.

Zayn rises a little onto one elbow to look over Harry’s sleeping body at Louis and he’s surprised to see he’s got a soft smile on his face.

“You two look good together,” he tells Zayn.

And the fact he's being sweet and not scathing, is a definite clue for Zayn to conclude he’s still completely out of it.

Louis pulls out his phone and taps at it blearily for a few minutes before holding it up to Zayn’s face.

“See that?” he says, waving it so unsteadily that Zayn can’t see anything but a swirl of blue light, “Three hours and then the alarm Zayn. Perfectly adequate. Don’t let Liam tell you I’m not the responsible one.”

And he flops back into his bed, flat on his back, fully clothed and snoring softly almost immediately.

Zayn brushes Harry’s hair aside so it’s not tickling his nose as much and then lets his face slide down until his pressed into the back of Harry’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to fall back asleep, he thinks. He wants to be alert and present for every last second of whatever remains for them.

 

///

Louis’ alarm goes off almost straight away it seems and Harry jolts at the noise, knocking his elbow sharply into Zayn’s ribs. There’s a lot of groaning from all three of them until Zayn reaches over the gap between the beds to grab Louis' phone and punch it off to cut out the shriek.

“Please God no,” Louis breaths, falling sideways into the wall.

Harry slumps straight back down into the mattress with a whump, and Zayn looks down concernedly to check he’s still breathing.

Louis’s hands are rubbing up and down his face while he groans. “Jesus, Zayn, why do we do this?”

And then he looks over at Harry’s naked back and the tired slits of his eyes meet Zayn’s and he says, “Now what?”

///

Somebody has left an extra large pot of coffee in the hostel kitchen, which seems both miraculous and incredibly generous, and while they take turns to visit the tiny shower room down the hall, Zayn brings up them all up paper cups of it to sip while they get dressed.

Because Louis’ there the whole time, alternating loud complaints on his physical condition and loaded comments on the delights of the night before, Harry and Zayn haven’t really been able to do more than say a soft _Good Morning_ , and _You OK_ to each other and exchange secret smiles over their coffee.

The girl at the reception desk makes a fuss about an extra person staying in the room, which makes everything awkward and embarrassing, until Louis pushes Zayn and Harry aside to slap some cash on the counter and tell her she’s destined to die alone and unloved, and she deserves it, before huffing his way outside while Zayn snorts back his laughter and Harry looks appalled.

They’re wandering along the quay, bags slung over their shoulders and paper coffee cups in hand, when Zayn’s heart start rabbiting in his chest. Louis just keeps nattering on, bringing them back in the direction of the boat and it’s all beginning to feel he just dreamt last night and now the sun is crashing into the sea and he’s the only one who’s noticed.

But after a while, it seems like Harry might be feeling something similar because he’s slowing his pace along with Zayn’s until they both drift to a stop, side by side, and Louis finally notices and stops too, turning to look at them both.

He sighs. “Right then, hit me with it.”

“I should talk to Al,” Harry announces suddenly. “I should tell him I’m leaving.”

“Fuck sake, Harry, just send him an email.” Louis says, after a pause. He sighs impatiently. “He wasn’t ever going to leave his wife. You do know that, don’t you?”

And Harry starts, before releasing a breath and nodding slowly.

“I mean,” Louis says, sipping his coffee and squinting at the sky, “he isn’t the worst, I suppose. But…”

He grins broadly, and nods at Zayn, “This one’s much more your type I think. Happy ever after, and all that. We can totally talk Liam into giving you a job for the next charter. Like, Patrice has been whinging for ages he needs help for the bigger bookings so …”

His smile drops instantly as they both shift awkwardly on their feet, and stay quiet.

“Oh.” Louis says then.

He shakes his head slowly at them, glaring. He points angrily at Zayn, “You’re not leaving,” he tells him, before whirling to Harry, “You’re not allowed to take him.”

Zayn sighs. “He’s not, Louis,” he pulls him over to sit on the harbour wall, “come here.”

 

 

They’re dangling their legs over the wall, looking down on the glassy water, Louis between Harry and Zayn, kicking his feet angrily against the stone.

“Is this because of me nearly getting you killed, Zayn? Because, that was a once-off, seriously. Learned me lesson. Cross my heart.”

Zayn has to laugh, “No Louis. You know that’s not it.”

Aren’t you even going to say goodbye to Niall?” Louis asks, “And Liam? He’ll be…”

“I can’t.” Zayn tells him. “I just can’t set foot on that boat again. I’ll call them. I’ll …”

Louis just shakes his head. “It’s cold at home. You’ll freeze. You don’t even have the clothes for it any more.”

“I know,” Zayn says softly.

“And no one gives you $1,000 tip for a week’s work there.”

“Yeah.”

“So you shouldn’t leave, then.”

Zayn sighs, “I have to Louis. You know I’ve been thinking about it for ages. I just didn’t know what to do next.”

“And now you do? All of a sudden? Came to you in a dream did it? A post-coital vision? You get a good fuck and suddenly everything's clear?”

Zayn ignores the barb, “It's just ... I always wanted to do something ... important. No - don't laugh Louis - you know what I mean! Something more significant than serving cocktails anyway. I used to always think when I was a kid that I'd be a teacher when I grew up. That was always the plan, what I was going to do after Uni, but then, I dunno, I got scared or something. It seemed too boring. Too small. But. It just doesn’t anymore. It feels like, it might be a way to matter, in a way.”

Zayn feels his face go red. "I dunno." he huffs in the end. It sounds stupid and self-important now he's said it out loud. But he means it. And he wants to go home so badly. He wants his family close by. He needs them.

“And you’re telling me this dickhead isn’t even going to be there,” he nods at Harry, who’s just staring out at the horizon, squinting against the sun.

“I’ll go back,” Harry says softly, “eventually. When I figure out how to stop fucking up all the time.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You won’t, you know. You’ll keep fucking up. It’s inevitable.”

Zayn rams his elbow in Louis as hard as he can, because Louis is allowed to be upset but he’s not allowed to be mean to Harry.

“Ow Zayn!” Louis elbows him back. “No! Just … Harry, look, everybody fucks up, all the time, haven’t you noticed, you prat? Like, look at me. I made this shitty mistake with the drugs and scared everyone and I’m sorry about that now, but, it’s done. That's that. But I'm sure it's not my last fuck up. And like, Niall hasn’t spoken to his brother in almost a year, because they had some stupid row over the phone and they’re both too stubborn to be the first to apologise. And Liam is limiting his whole life to this thankless stupid job and is going to end up retiring on a private island with only 20 cats for company if he doesn’t start looking after himself instead of everyone else.”

Zayn narrows his eyes at Louis, wondering if that’s the real reason he’s always trying to talk Liam into bunking off with them.

“And yeah, look at your Al. He’s fucking up his relationship with his kids just because he’s so greedy ... for his job and sex and whatever else he's into. And Zayn here keeps fucking up because he’ll never admit when he’s scared and just tries to hides his feelings instead of facing up to things -

“It’s true!” Louis protests, to Zayn’s murmur of dissent, “You could have had Harry here a lot sooner, but you were too scared to fight for him.”

And Zayn exhales a short sigh in exasperation because he’s remembering all the times Louis warned him off, until he catches Harry looking over at him, and he’s smiling that wide open smile that’s just his. He raises one eyebrow at Zayn, like he thinks Louis has a point, and Zayn just shakes his head at both of them.

“Boys!” Louis declares loudly, spreading his arms open to gesture out over the sea in front of them, “We’re all fucking up all the time! And we’re all going to keep fucking up, every fucking day, probably but … the important thing is …the moral of the story is...”

They wait, looking at him.

“I don’t actually have the end to that, sorry,” Louis admits.

Zayn stares open mouthed for a second, but then suddenly everything’s hilarious and he almost loses his seat on the wall as he folds over, spluttering laughter and spilling his coffee over his jeans.

“That was going so well, Lou. It really sounded like it was leading somewhere.”

“Yeah I really thought it was too,” Louis says, smirking. “Hang on, how about - however much we fuck up, there’s always tomorrow when we get to rise and fuck up all over again? No? Well, what about - no matter how much we fuck up, we’ll always have each other? Unless we fall out and don’t speak and wish we’d never met? What? It could happen? Ok, then here’s one, no matter how much we fuck up, there’s always some fucker who’s fucked up even worse than us? No, no, wait, I can do this … hang on, no matter what … we’ll … um …”

Harry throws his arms around Louis and hugs him tight, smacking his hand over his mouth to stop him talking. “Alright! Shut up! I’ll take all of the above! Just stop saying fuck up so much, please?”

Louis shakes his face free from Harry’s broad hand and grins. He reaches his arms around both of them, tugging them in, kissing each of their cheeks in turn.

“Alright then, lads. My boys...”

 

They see then, the group of girls from last night, strolling along towards them, huge-backpacks balanced on their shoulders.

Louis sighs before nodding in their direction, and telling Harry, “They’re a nice bunch, that lot. Taking the ferry back to Athens today, and then, they said, they might do Croatia next. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind some extra company.”

Zayn’s blood pools in a hot puddle around his heart as he sees Harry glance over at them and then back at Louis. He nods.

“Hey! Girls!” Louis calls and waves them over.

 

 

///

 

 

On the hydrofoil back to Athens, they sit outside on the hardback seats, the wind whipping over their faces. Harry’s got his hair tied back which Zayn is enjoying because there’s a space just behind his ear where it’s nice to just press his face and breath in the smell of his skin.

It transpires that guys cuddling openly isn’t quite the done thing on Greek ferries, and they start getting a few disgusted stares, which Zayn finds amusing more than anything, considering it’s the birthplace of Eros and all that, but he sees then, the way Stacey and Helen catch the glances and glare back until the offended people either shuffle away or turn flustered, to look over the sea.

And Zayn thinks that yeah, Harry’ll be OK with these kids for a while. They’ll look out for him.

When the ferry slows to pull into the port, Harry slides out of his arms and turns around in his seat to hold Zayn’s face between his two palms. He looks into his eyes for a long moment, before leaning in and kissing him lightly on the lips.

“Let’s not do goodbye OK? ‘Cos it’s not. I’ll call, when I’m back in England. We’ll wear out our student discounts on train tickets.”

Zayn nods. “OK. No goodbye.”

He knows Harry believes what he’s saying to be true. Just like he used to believe it every time a beloved crew member left for another boat or to go home. Every time he exchanged hugs and promises to stay in touch. They all meant them every time.

It isn’t terrible - the way people just drift out of your life. Not when you’ve got all the memories to hold onto forever. The way something - a smell, a feeling - will one day trigger a warm rush of fond recollection. Nothing’ll ever take that away.

Harry sits back into his seat and they watch the city port draw closer.

“I was just remembering these girls I saw in Gatwick airport, when I was leaving,” Zayn tells Harry, “and the stewardess wouldn’t let them board cos their hand-luggage was overweight, so they opened their bags and just started wearing everything, like layers and layers of their clothes all on top of each other. They looked like Michelin Men getting on board. It was so funny. It worked though. They let them on the flight.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Is that supposed to be some kind of parable or something? Like, I’m suppose to bring my troubles out into the light or something like that?”

“Oh,” Zayn scratches his chin, his beard’s coming through already. That’s a thing. No ones going to make him shave any more. The possibilities. “Well, I thought it was just a funny story really. Keep the mood light. But whatever works for you, babe.”

Harry punches him in the arm. “Fucker.”

He leans back again against Zayn, resting his face onto his shoulder, and sliding his hand into Zayn’s, twisting their fingers together. Everyone surrounding them is shifting around, gathering their belongs, getting ready to disembark.

Zayn brings Harry’s fingers to his mouth and kisses the back of his hand.

He thinks about what Louis said, about him being scared.

“I fell in love with you, you know that, do you?” he says, “I just want to be sure you know.”

Harry nods and looks up at him. “I fell in love with you too.”

Zayn combs back Harry’s hair and kisses his forehead. “Good.”

“We made a right balls of it though,” Harry says then, and Zayn crumples up in laughter and squeezes Harry in close.

“Yeah, we did.”

Harry looks up at him again, “Next time,” he says. “Next time we meet, we’ll do it properly.”

Zayn blinks back. The look in Harry’s eyes is so honest and true, it swings into Zayn’s chest like an axe and splits his heart open. He swallows and has to look away.

“Is there a proper way to fall in love?”

Harry shrugs into him. “Well, we’ll do it improperly, then.”

“OK, babe. Lets do that.”

 

The tannoy spits out a squeal of feedback and then some indecipherable announcement is made in Greek and everyone’s on their feet around them, shuffling towards the exit doors, as a loud clunk shivers through the ferry and they’ve docked.

He feels Harry tense up inside his arms but it’ll be worse to prolong this, so Zayn just pulls him in for an embrace so tight he knows he must be hurting him and then he pushes him away.

He stands and grabs the bag he’d packed yesterday with not more than just his passport and a change of underwear for his night out in Spetses. It’s all he’ll be arriving home with now. He hopes his family will be excited enough with his unexpected return to forgive his lack of presents.

He can’t look up. He decides he’ll wait back on the boat until everyone’s gone.

“We gotta run, Harry,” one of the American girls says then, Zayn can’t make himself look up to see which one it is, “We’re going to have to get you a ticket and then run to the other terminal for the connection.

“OK,” he hears Harry say and there’s a thickness to his voice that Zayn just doesn’t want to know about.

He turns to move away across the deck, away from the exits, when a hand clenches his, warm and enveloping, and then its gone and his arm swings back empty to his side.

Zayn walks across the deck and looks out over the water, his heart thumping somewhere in his throat.

“Hey! Hey! Zayn!”

He turns slowly, puzzled. Harry’s on his toes, looking back over the throng gathering around the doorway, his camera in his hands, “I never got to see any frickin’ dolphins Zayn!”

And he raises his camera to click just as Zayn laughs.

He smiles and then the crowd closes around him and he’s gone.

 

///

 

Zayn grips onto the rusting metal of the ship and looks out over the blue Mediterranean sea, at the busy port, the white tufts of clouds in the sky.

He thinks of Calisto, cast up there somewhere, the great bear, ready to twinkle down on them once the sun sets. He thinks he might have a different answer to Harry’s question now, when he asked why it had all happened to her.

He feels like he gets it all a bit better now. She was always destined for her place in the heavens, to be there, shining above them all - guiding sailors, wanderers. And it might have all seemed like a terrible tragedy, but it was only a journey really, to get her to where she always needed to be.

And his journey’s not over just yet, he thinks, this is not the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an epilogue. Coming very soon.


	7. Epilogue: Sheffield

When Zayn was nine years old, a Scottish family moved next door and the Maliks, as a unit, fell in love with them - inviting them over on Saturdays to share the kebabs Zayn’s dad grilled in the back garden, the mums taking turns with school runs and swimming class drop-offs, the girls skipping over chalk-drawn hopskotch squares on the street outside their houses. Zayn ended up pairing off with Alison the most, who, at eight, was a year younger than him but closer in age than any of his sisters. Their age was the sum of their similarities however, because, while Zayn as a child was a quiet, indoorsy, comic-book devotee, Ali was a scabby-kneed, wild, flame-haired thrill seeker. He still isn’t sure if they were actually friends or if he was just too scared of her to ever say no, but for months she dragged him after her as she chased villains down alleyways, slayed dragons in treetops and befriended ghosts in abandoned buildings.

It was a mixture of sadness and relief that Zayn felt when the family packed up again nine months later to move back to Glasgow. But for years and years afterwards, whenever Zayn was about to back out of a dare or was hesitating at the brink of a new experience, he heard Alison’s voice in his head, “G’wan ye feartie-cat! Stop fartin’ aboot and just dae it, will ya?”

He sometimes hears her still … that first day walking through the wide doorways of Manchester Uni, his fingers white-knucked tight around the strap of his backpack; all the times the classroom full of rambunctious nine-year-olds refused to acknowledge his authority during his sometimes torturous but overall rewarding teaching practice; the moment his hand hesitated over the mouse before opening that first email from Harry after they parted. 

He’s wondered, from time to time, if his voice echoes in Alison’s head too, if it’s maybe saved her, once or twice, from tipping over the edge, from taking that one step too close to danger … “Ali! Are you crazy?! Come back!”

There’ve been so many others too, so many people who drifted in and out his life and left behind a mark as indelible as the ink tattooed into his skin, throwaway comments from friends, interactions with random strangers, little moments that can only be categorised by their mundanity and the way they seem to have lodged inside of him - the old man in the park feeding a robin from his hand who told him that gaining trust was just patience, but keeping it was character; the old hippy guy they’d ended up drinking with on a beach in Portugal who laughed all night and told them it had taken him 15 years of racing around the world, never liking anywhere enough to settle, before he realised it was his own thoughts he’d been trying to outrun; the girl he’d dated for a while in sixth form, the self-help book enthusiast, who’d told him that no one else was responsible for his feelings but him; the boy who’d promised him - next time we meet we’ll fall in love properly … next time we meet …

 

 

A clatter of hailstones against the black windowpane draws Zayn’s attention back to the present. He often drifts so deep these wintry quiet nights, alone with his sketch-pad, that when something eventually breaks through his concentration he’s surprised to find the morning has already arrived and he’s got to blink himself into the acceptance of a painful day ahead of slowly passing hours, mugs of black coffee and endless yawning. 

He checks his watch and goes into the flat’s little kitchenette and switches on the kettle, tapping his fingernails on the countertop and scratching at his beard until it boils.

He drops teabags into two mugs and pours the hot water on top, waiting until the liquid seeps strong and dark before topping the mugs with a splash of milk and making his way through the living room where Liam is snoring on the sofa, and then down along the corridor to the bedroom. 

The alarm is just starting to sound as Zayn pushes open the door with his elbow. He rushes over to set down the cups on the bedside locker and taps the phone into silence.

Harry shifts under his soft pile of bedding, and Zayn kneels over him to run his fingers though the mop of dark curls that just appear over the edge of the duvet. They're getting long again, thank goodness. He nestles his face down into his warmth, nuzzling until his lips meet soft skin, and he presses a light kiss into Harry’s temple.

“Morning babe,” he murmurs, “wake up, sweetheart.”

“Ummph,” is Harry’s response, and he wriggles slightly away to bury his face into the pillow. 

Zayn smiles and gently tugs the duvet down from his head.

“Ugh,” Harry’s groaning into his pillow, “’timesit?”

“It’s 4.30, babe,” Zayn tells him softly, scratching gently through his curls at his scalp. “You gotta get up. The sourdough’s waiting.”

Harry rolls over onto his back, huffing and rubbing at his eyes, “’Hmmm… … so tired.”

It’s too early for anyone to start work, Zayn thinks, but this is Harry’s latest thing - the baking. He’s already abandoned his law degree and the photography apprenticeship and the massage therapy course, but so far, this one seems to be sticking. Zayn knows now that it takes some people a long time to figure out what it is that brings fulfilment, and that’s ok. It’s only by running through the options, taking a few wrong turns, that you get there in the end.

Zayn sits back down on the edge of the bed, and clicks on the bedside lamp, smiling at the pathetic whimper that the soft glow draws from Harry. “I know babe” he says soothingly, patting his stomach over the covers, “made you tea, though.”

Harry shifts himself up a little, slumping back against the headboard with his eyes still shut, and makes grabby hands in the air until Zayn places the mug into them.

“Mmmmm,” Harry takes a long gulp, before letting his head flop back, “that’s nice.”

He scrunches up his face and manages to open his eyes a crack to look at Zayn, frowning with the effort. “You didn’t come to bed last night,” he says, his voice deep and hoarse. 

Zayn reaches for his own tea, “Sorry babe, I’m not long in. Seemed better to just stay up.” Zayn comes in so hyped after his Friday shift behind the bar in a nightclub, it just seems easier to stay up and work on stuff until its time to wake up Harry for his early shift at the bakery. 

Harry bumps his leg into Zayn’s, “But I missed you,” he complains into his mug.

“You were asleep, hun, you didn’t know.” Zayn points out, unable to keep the grin from his face.

“No, I missed you,” Harry insists. He flops one hand out over the duvet towards Zayn, and leaves it there limply, until Zayn slides his fingers over to grasp it. Harry tightens his grip and tugs Zayn closer, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Zayn,” he says, slowly drawing out the word, “good morning.” He’s smiling now, looking deeply into Zayn’s eyes.

“’Morning, love.” Zayn smiles back, leaning in to press a soft kiss back onto Harry’s lips.

Harry sinks back again, looking content.

“Should be back by 3 today,” he yawns at Zayn, “will you be here?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m not starting till 9 tonight, so we can have the evening together. Liam’s meeting the lads to watch the match so everyone’ll be out.”

“Cool,” Harry smiles, squeezing Zayn’s hand. “We need some quality time.” 

Zayn starts to laugh but he knows what Harry means. Between classes, assignments, study groups, their part-time jobs, and their flat somehow having ended up the focal point of their friends’ social lives, they sometimes seem to be like ships passing in the night. Liam’s been staying on their fold-out couch for the last month too, while he interviews at various prestigious hotel chains, having abandoned crewing after Louis and Niall finally, unbelievably, got it together to get their seaside bar up and running. Zayn and Harry have promised them a trip out to Zakynthos, once Zayn’s exams are over with.

“Well,” Zayn twists Harry’s fingers around his, and lifts them up to his lips, “I was thinking, since we’ll have a while, that maybe we could do that thing, the thing that you like. If you want?”

“Which thing?” Harry asks, his eyes gleaming greedily, “I like all the things.”

Zayn chuckles. Then he slips his fingers along Harry’s hand until he’s tightly clasping Harry’s wrist, pulling it back to press it against the bedpost, where a scarf drapes loosely - all ready to be put to use later, if Harry gives the say so.

He looks down into Harry’s face to find that his eyes have darkened and he’s breathing heavily already.

“Oh,” he breaths, “that thing.”

“Yeah,” Zayn tells him, “that thing.”

Harry smiles so broadly his dimples sink to Australia. “I’d like us to do that thing, Zayn.”

Zayn grins back, leaning down again to kiss Harry, a little deeper this time, a little harder.

Harry breaks away to whisper against his lips, “And you can call me sir. I like it when you call me sir.”

Zayn pulls back, shaking his head, a bit annoyed, to be honest. When will this guy get it? “No Haz,” he huffs, “that’s the other thing. You’re mixing up the things.”

Harry laughs throatily. He’s always found Zayn’s irritation amusing, it had been a surprise to discover.

“I told you from the start Zayn,” Harry says, “I have a hard time making decisions. I want everything.”

That now-familiar heat pulses through Zayn’s veins. It had just taken that email from Harry, after 8 months backpacking, to say he was back and he’d really like to see him, and would he like to meet for a catch up? And Zayn responded instantly to tell him his sofa was free if he wanted to stay over for a night and of course, Harry never made it to the sofa, the two of them overwhelmed 20 minutes into their meeting at Zayn’s local, (just long enough for Zayn to get used to Harry with short hair) that they'd rushed into the loos together, unable to wait for the short walk back to Zayn's flat, so obvious about their intentions that Zayn still hasn’t been able to work up the courage to return. 

And since then, Harry’s never gone anywhere else for longer for a night or two - and even then, it’s been usually just to see his Mum and Zayn’s tagged along too. Because, somehow, they’d both managed, in the intervening time period, to figure out how to communicate. Maybe their absence from each other’s lives had been such a stark experience, it had been the kick up the butt they’d both needed, but somehow, that first night, in the grim confines of a stall in the gents of the _Horse and Crown_ , Zayn had found no difficulty in breathing “Please stay, please don’t ever leave me again,” while at the exact same time Harry was whispering to him, “I don’t want to go anywhere else, Zayn. Please let me stay.”

 

Harry trails his finger tips along Zayn’s jawline, so gently it tickles. Zayn laughs against Harry’s mouth and pulls back but Harry wriggles until his other hand is free and he’s got Zayn’s face between his palms. He pulls back just enough so he can look into Zayn’s eyes. They stay there for a moment, just drinking each other in.

“I love you, you know.” Harry whispers eventually, not breaking eye contact.

“I do know,” Zayn tells him, dipping his head to look back into Harry’s eyes, grinning at him, “I love you too.”

Harry nods once, a small smile of satisfaction on his lips, and he kisses Zayn once, twice, then leans back just far enough to just look at him again. 

“Come on,” Zayn smiles at him, stroking his crazy bed-hair back from his forehead, “you’re gonna be late and Barbara always blames me. Get to work, babe. Think of me when you’re fondling the buns.”

Harry just wriggles his arms tighter around Zayn and nuzzles into his shoulder, and then Zayn feels his tea-warmed lips pressing along his collar-bone.

“Your buns are the only ones I want to fondle, Zaynie,” he hears Harry murmur against his skin.

Zayn laughs and squirms when he feels Harry’s teeth nibbling into the side of his neck. “Harry!” he warns, but quickly melts when Harry’s mouth works its way up to the hollow just behind his ear.

“Think I might be a bit late for work today, Zayn,” Harry’s murmuring into his ear, “You really should have woken me up on time. I’ll have to complain to Barbara about you all … day … long.”

And then Zayn’s sinking back onto the mattress beside Harry, rolling over so he’s buried beneath the sleepy weight of Harry and his soft caresses and the gentle presses of his open mouth. And as their eyes meet again, gleaming in the soft lamplight, Zayn feels a warmth rush to the surface of his skin. 

He thinks about all those months he spent imagining coming home. And how wrong he’d been, how he never once guessed it could feel like this.

“Baby,” Zayn laughs into Harry’s mouth, “you gotta go.”

“Gotta come,” Harry corrects, and he rolls over Zayn, pushing back the bedcovers, and crawling down so he’s hovering over Zayn’s crotch. “Come on - if we 69 it'll be more time-efficient.”

“Ah, efficient sex, my favourite kind of all,” Zayn says but then he’s silenced again when Harry’s fingers reach to unzip his jeans while he swings one leg over Zayn’s head to bracket him in place with his thighs and Zayn’s got to acknowledge that maybe time-efficient sex is perfectly acceptable way to start the day.

 

 

The rain is just about holding off as they make their way to Harry’s workplace , walking hand-in-hand through the darkened streets, pressing close to each other to ward of the British spring temperatures, which feel very close to the winter temperatures. Sometimes Zayn can’t even remember what it’s like to dress in less than at least three layers of clothing.

“Do you ever think we made a mistake coming back to Britain to freeze our balls off like this?” Zayn huffs into Harry’s neck.

“Your balls are fully intact, pet,” Harry tells him, “I’m quite sure about it.”

Zayn snorts back a laugh. 

“And don’t worry,” Harry adds, “ you’ll warm up on your trip to see the guys’ bar in a few weeks.”

“Our trip”, Zayn corrects.

This has been a bit of a thing - Harry’s determination to prove now that he’s stronger, capable of looking after himself, making his own way. Zayn’s still got a lot saved from his boat earnings but Harry resists any attempt he ever makes to spend any of it on him. 

It’s just one of the things they’re working through. There’s plenty more - like Zayn’s jealous sulks sparked by Harry’s innate flirtatiousness and his tendency to suck up all the attention in the room - because it turned out that happy, well-balanced Harry is a bigger and brighter and louder personality than Zayn had ever realised.

They get tired and cranky with each other sometimes, and have stupid arguments about cleaning out the fridge or who’s socks have been on the floor for five days running and who’s going to call the landlord about getting the heating fixed. 

And there was that huge, huge fight they’d had once, when Harry told him he’d reached out to Al because his sister worked in publishing, because that fun little illustrated story about the alien family Zayn had done up for his class group was too cute and clever not to be seen by someone in the industry, and Zayn just couldn’t accept that Harry could be so casual about inviting the _always-likes-to-win_ -Al back into their lives, and Harry would not tolerate being told who he could and couldn’t talk to, and they both exploded at each other until it all ended up with Harry flinging his stuff into his bag at 2 o’clock in the morning and storming out, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

And the panic Zayn felt then took him right back to the time he thought he was drowning and as soon as he managed to catch a breath he rushed after Harry, slamming into his back when he found he’d gone no further than the living room and was just standing there, his bag dropped at his feet.

They’d got over the whole thing very quickly with Zayn getting fucked over the back of the sofa and Harry clinging tight afterwards and telling him he'd never, never, never leave him. If Al ever responded to Harry he didn’t mention it, but Zayn did give in to Harry’s persuasion and sent his story to a few places and there’s been one agent since who keeps writing to him with suggested edits and updates on the expressions of interest she’s been getting. It’s all so slow moving though, Zayn’s not getting his hopes up.

So that was their biggest row, but in a way it was easier to deal with than the small stuff that nibbles away, unnoticed. Like, there have been a few times when they’ve caught themselves having drifted for days through their busy lives without properly talking or checking in with each other.

And sometimes, Zayn freaks out that he’s got it all wrong, and he’s living exactly the small, boxed-in existence he always claimed he’d rather die than end up doing.

But Harry’s good at saying sorry, and Zayn’s good at letting things go, and every time, they’ve managed to pull themselves back from the brink, their eyes meeting across their shared pillow and there, together in the dark, they rediscover that precious, simple thing they’ve found in each other - love - and Zayn’s heart feels like the hugest place on the planet, and that nothing is bigger, or scarier, or safer and warmer than right here, with this love, this trust.

 

 

They reach the bakery, the windows clouded up with steam from the ovens.

Harry swings his arms around Zayn and hugs him, “Thanks for walking me. See ya later then.”

Zayn stifles a yawn and nuzzles into Harry’s neck.

“Hey,” Harry says, dropping his head onto Zayn’s shoulder and hanging there like a deadweight, “Maybe later … instead of that thing, would you mind if we just took a nap? I’m frickin’ exhausted.”

Zayn laughs, because he’d just been thinking the same and oh shit does this mean they’re getting old? Already?!

“Certainly, sir,” he tells Harry, “whatever you like.”

And Harry’s giggle vibrates through his whole body and he gives him one last squeeze before pulling away and a waft of heat rushes out from the bakery doorway as he steps inside, calling out apologies to Barbara across the room.

And Zayn turns and makes his way back home, over the dark, wet pavement, and he finds he's smiling away to himself because suddenly he's swept with images of being old with Harry, and it doesn’t seem like a bad thing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I really appreciate feedback and I'm always looking to improve so any comments you have would mean a huge amount to me. And if you liked this fic, I'd love if you'd recommend it to others. Thank you again for sticking with it!


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